


Three Weeks

by plantsaway



Series: Three Weeks [1]
Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Baseball, Alternate Universe - Sports, Michael-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-10-20
Packaged: 2018-08-10 09:54:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 22,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7840210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plantsaway/pseuds/plantsaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The baseball!au no one asked for! Michael Clifford is in his rookie season in the Major Leagues—he's found the place wants to stay for the rest of his career, found friendship and brotherhood with his teammates....and really, who wouldn't love 5sos hanging out in baseball pants?</p><p>Thank you for your time :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Diamond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meeting Michael Clifford, third baseman.

**Diamond—(n.) the field upon which the game of baseball is played**

 

Michael ranges near third base, red hair clashing with his uniform, tufting out over his ears, glowing in the sunlight when he lifts his cap to adjust it after every play. He’s a solid .270 hitter, not bad, not great, and his arm’s better than his swing, but it’s his speed at getting _to_ the ball, his eagerness when he has to drift into foul territory to catch a popup, the way he sets his legs before whipping the ball to first—that’s what kept him in the minors for only a year and a half. His speed and his drive won him the starting job after the team’s everyday third baseman went down with a recurring hamstring issue, and the infield replacement from the bench was better suited to shortstop or second base. And Mikey, Mikey is overwhelmed by the reception he’s gotten—from the team, who laughingly put him through rookie hazing even though he came to the team months after the season had started; from the coaching staff, who never bothered him about his hair, his tattoos, his piercings, so long as he remembers to take the eyebrow bar out before every game. He thinks that’s more for his safety though, rather than about how he looks. Brian Wilson dyed his beard and wore it in a dang ponytail, the baseball community should be cool with a few piercings. He’d run into that problem in the minors though, where it seemed like every decision he made was wrong. He’d even taken to wearing a protective sleeve on his right arm to cover his tattoos; the wincing from his coaches, the eyerolls from the management, had been too much to take on top of all the pressure he, and the organization, put on him in his first season of professional ball. The majors was different—all that mattered to the organization was his skill on the field. But the best part, aside from doing what he loved 162 days of the year, the best part was the fans.

The city just took to him. Only twenty-two, Mikey still wasn’t the youngest guy on the team, but he was the newest face. He’d worried for the entire drive up the state to his new home, “his new office,” as he sometimes though about the field, but he hadn’t needed to. Within the few weeks with the team, wigs with his hair color, cut ragged and short, tucked under ballcaps and hoods, started popping up all over the stands. He hadn’t had the heart to recolor it and make them feel they’d wasted their money. One day, during batting practice, he noticed someone in the stands in his jersey. Running away from the patch of field he’d been stretching in, he called out until the fan had turned around, walked down the aisle towards him.

It was an older guy—he’d covered the jersey in pins from postseasons past. “Where’d you get my jersey?” Michael coughed out. The man laughed.

“I was a third baseman in college,” he explained, “Never played pro, but my family have been fans of this team since they came to this city, and I have the jersey of every third baseman we’ve had, so long as they’ve made jerseys for them!”

“They’re making my jersey?!”

The guy laughed again, as loud as the day was bright. “Yeah, of course they are. You have seen yourself, right son? The city loves its teams, and it loves its quirky players.”

“Wow.”

“Maybe you should get back to your team, Clifford. Sign this first, ok?”

Mikey signed the jersey numbly, barely remembered to smile and thank the man as he ranged back to the field proper. Once it was his turn to hit a few practice pitches, they all shot out into the stands. And while he didn’t hit any homers that game, he hit two for three, earned a clap on the back from his hitting coach, a rarely-seen smile from the manager. The jerseys kept popping up, more and more as the weeks wore on. He found out that they had sold out of them at a kiosk once, and it wasn’t even the day he’d bought a bunch for his family back home. He was blown away by the fact that anyone wanted to wear his name, other than his mom, who’d asked for enough to give to his extended family, her friends from work, her book club…he thought maybe his mom was prouder of his success than he was. It was her gentle pushing (and promise to ease up nagging him to clean his room) that found him signing up for tryouts of the four major sports teams his first year of high school. Baseball had been the only one he’d been good at, and thank god, he’d fallen in love with the sport seconds after pulling on a too-big glove and jogging to the only acceptable place for a complete newbie—right field. When the coach had seen how quick he was—if not completely willing to lay it out for a sharp drive—it had been “over to third, Clifford.”

Michael thinks sometimes that the fans have changed his life. Before his call-up to the Big Show, he’d been losing his mind in the minors, kept thinking about his Associate’s degree in fucking Econ, of all things. But he was here, and god, there was no way he could be in contention for Rookie of the Year this far into the season, but he was dammed if he wasn’t going to play for it, going to play like hell for the thousands in those seats, the people who stood behind him and stood up for him when the press or the league tore him down for his look, for his attitude. He never gave them a chance to hurt him for how he played.

Well, that batting average could always come up.

* * *

 

His teammates were great; of course with a locker room full of adrenaline and testosterone (not the illegal kind!) fueled jocks, tempers ran hot and deep. But these were professionals, and it always came back to the game, and yeah, Mikey hated getting criticized for his performance on the field and at the plate, but he knew he needed it, and moreover knew that these were _his_ men, that it was _their_ team, that they were—wince—all in this together.

More than new teammates, he’d made friends. All the way on the other side of the field stood Calum Hood; figured his closest friend on the team would play in the spot furthest from him. Cal was younger than him, the youngest guy on the team at just twenty-one. It was his rookie season as well, though the right fielder had started with the rest of the team at the beginning of the season. Hood had fallen in easily with Mike—they were both young, both felt a little uneasy with the praise and pressure heaved onto their shoulders. Better, his constant smile contrasted sharply with Michael’s permanent arched brow, the bright with the skeptical, the chuckles with the smirk. Honestly, it felt like he had known Calum forever, and while the outfielder had only grinned at him before falling back asleep after Michael told him that on a cross-country flight, he thought maybe Cal felt the same.

Calum Hood was something of an enigma. During the Draft, everyone, every analyst, every reporter, hell, likely every fan—casual or lifelong—was saying the kid would be a designated hitter for one of the American League teams, whose pitchers don’t hit and use a tenth man whose only role is to hit the ball, hard, often, and far. He had power. He’d been a right fielder in high school, because no one can hit to right when they’re still in high school—it was the exact reason an untested freshman like Michael was shoved there his first day. But Calum wasn’t fast like an infielder, like Michael. He wasn’t accurate like a pitcher, didn’t have a cannon for an arm like a proper outfielder. He couldn’t remember pitches like a catcher should, and his knees got too stiff as well. So he stayed in right. But what his first coach, then pitchers all over then state, then the country, had found out, was that Hood could hit. In his two years of college ball, he hit .335. His teammates back in school always laughed, said it’d be better to leave right field empty, let him rest until his turn in the lineup, than put him in the outfield and deal with errors left, right, and center (little baseball humor there). Calum had gotten better though, miles better, simply because he had to. People can hit to right field in college, in the majors; left-handers are in higher percentages in the baseball community than anywhere else. So yeah, Calum will never get the Golden Glove, but fans are already betting, not on whether he’ll get a Silver Slugger, but on how many.

When a National League team drafted him, when he realized he’d be not just mindlessly playing offense, he’d cried. Only his sister knew that, sitting with him in his dorm room when he’d gotten the call. Someone wanted him, thought he was better than he did, thought he could compete, thought his positives outweighed his negatives. By a lot, it turned out—Cal didn’t start a single game in the minors, And sure, he was making almost the least amount of money for a second-round draft pick in a decade, but he was where he wanted, needed to be.

Mike had seen the same drive in Calum as he found in himself. Mike was quick to the ball, Cal was quick to the ball—one with a mitt, the other a bat, but they were moved by the same goal, the same need to prove themselves, to pick up their team, to win.

But Cal wasn’t the first of his teammates Mikey had met, and he wasn’t the only one he was close to.

Ashton Irwin was…something else. Like Michael, he sometimes looked out of place on the field—when he made it there, that is. Irwin, who Mike had known of for the last few years (but who hadn’t), looked like a hipster, a surfer, a poet, anything but someone who plays America’s Favorite Pastime, nevermind professionally. It was Ash who, while only twenty-five and not part of the starting lineup or rotation, convinced the rest of the team that Mikey should be subjected to the same hazing his fellow rookies went through—three months later. Yes, flying to and rolling up to the field of his first major league start, an away game, in a fluorescent wrestling singlet had been humiliating, but Cal’s (back then, just Hood’s) complaining about how Michael’s costume wasn’t as bad as his made it worth it, and Ashton’s brief hug and “welcome to your team” had made it worth it.

Irwin was a reliever, a damn good one. But, like a certain hero of their team from decade past, he tended to get injured. A lot. Randomly. At the moment, he was on the 15-day disabled list with a “neck strain,” though Ash had only giggled, put a finger to his lips, and mouthed “tell you when you’re older” when Michael asked. It seemed like the fan-favorite was injured more often than not, but he was excellent, sublime, on the mound. His quirks were as many as his pitches were sharp. His hair remained in a permanent bun off the field; he took it out when pitching, golden curls snarling out from the brim of his ballcap in a seemingly constant breeze, “distracting the batter and entrancing the crowd,” as he himself put it. He never called them the fans; they were “the crowd” or “the audience.” Calum always rolled his eyes, but Mike laughed, and he didn’t miss the quirk of Calum’s mouth either. Ashton’s hair, his smile, his tendency to steal the mascot suit and cavort on top of the dugout, his hopeless enthusiasm, his fucking _talent_ …that’s what drew their fans to him, why they called him “Sunshine,” why he’s signed a contract longer than any oft-injured specialist reliever should have—according to the experts. Mike tried his best to never mind the “experts.” He, and more importantly their GM, knew how much of an asset Ashton was, and that was enough.

Yeah, Mike was loving his life in the majors so far. He had friends, he had fans, and he owned that little stretch of basepath, the place he’d always wanted to be. So he’ll work on his average, his ERA, cross his fingers for a shot at the postseason, and maybe do a little research on the pitcher everyone was talking about, the one rumored to be in trade talks with his team. Hemmings, his name was, Luke Hemmings.


	2. Double Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael gets nervous and stays up too late.

**Double Play—(n.) the act of making two outs during the same continuous playing action. The “pitcher’s best friend”**

 

No player likes trade rumors, especially about themselves. And while there was nothing the pipe about Mikey moving anytime soon, the team had become such a huge part of who he was, so quickly, that the talks about acquiring a new starting pitcher felt personal, felt like a critique on himself. Hell, he wasn’t a pitcher, had never played the position, but the rumors still stung. With a little under three months left in the season, the competition between their division rivals grew more heated with every game, every time the two teams jumped each other in the standings. They needed a boost. And while Michael hated to see one of his teammates sent back to AAA to get his game back on track, he knew it was the best thing, a shot in the arm (not literally, haha, no steroid rumors here folks) for the team, fans, the whole organization.

He’d never met the pitcher his team was vying for, but that wasn’t too surprising. Even though the man was a National League pitcher, interdivisional matchups were rarer than the intradivisional series between the five teams located in their Nation League West—and the guy's team was from the other side of the country. Cal had frowned though, when Mike asked him about the guy, about Hemmings.

“Hit a two-run double off him,” Cal had muttered before stalking away. Mikey wondered at that—it was great, nothing to be ashamed of.  It wasn’t until he asked Ash—who always seemed on the pulse of the team’s troubles—that he understood. They’d faced Luke’s team, one of the worst in the league, three times so far this season, ten games total, and taken the series each time, but had never gotten the better of the twenty-four year old pitcher. And Calum had only been able to face him in one of those games, the first—he'd been out with a stiff back one day, a scheduled day off the other. Apparently he’d begged their manager to play that day, but he’d been snapped at, forced to spend the afternoon watching as Luke blanked them, was passed over even as a pinch hitter. The day Cal _had_ played, he hit that double…and struck out three times.

A batter hitting three pitches for every ten is a great hitter; Calum was a great and then some hitter. But he was 1-for-4 against Hemmings, and while those are terribly small numbers to base a grudge off of, Mike understood. Some players, some pitchers, just got in your head. Sometimes it was their windup, sometimes their stillness as they watched for the catcher's signs. Ashton said it was in his eyes—a cold brightness that locked batters up. “It was an emergency swing,” he confided to Michael, about Calum’s double, “he was just protecting. He wasn’t aiming for the gap; just got a lucky liner between the third and short. His eyes killed Calum the other times.” Of course, Ash had never faced Hemmings, and he was nearly positive Cal wouldn’t have willingly told the reliever it had been an emergency swing, but Mikey believed him. The way Calum refused to talk about the guy, Michael knew there had to be _something_ about him.

So when word came down that, yes, they were acquiring Hemmings in a three-team trade for a few prospects and a draft pick a few years down the line, Mike was nervous. Glad he wouldn’t have to face the man, embarrassed that he felt that way, worried about how he would get along with Cal and the rest of the team—Mike’s family, his brothers. Watching some video of his starts, a few interviews, wouldn’t hurt.

* * *

 

It was obvious why Luke was being traded. He was good, really good, but his current team was terrible—bottom of their division, almost bottom of the 30-team league. It made sense that his team would cut their losses, trade their best players for a shot at better, younger players in the seasons to come. Starting Hemmings’ highlight reel—as they still referred to it, despite the player catalogue looking more like YouTube—after Mike’s team had finished an extra-innings game, when the man himself would be arriving the next day, probably wasn’t Michael’s best idea. But he was a worrier, his brain as nervous as his hands were quick. Players come and go all the time, he reminded himself. Teams aren’t ruined by one guy. Pushing aside memories of a third baseman who started a total team collapse after sleeping with the wife of a first baseman, he let the first video play in the darkened clubhouse, pulling up a few articles about Hemmings on his phone.

Mike didn’t notice his eyes. He saw a tall, all-leg, broad-shouldered man, made wider by the pinstripes of his uniform. Baseballwise, the dude might not be able to carry his slumping team on his back, but physically…that was another question. His windup and delivery was nothing out of the ordinary; he was a righty with a three-quarter release point. Quick movement to the plate, but there was quicker out there. He’d be replacing a lefty with, at his peak, mid-90s power, but recently that had shrunk to 90 mph at best. Hemmings had that, and a lot more, in the tank. An article from his first season in the minors had predicted great things out of his arm, dubbing his 98 mph fastball a “killpitch” that Luke could drop anywhere over the plate. The speed had worked for a few months once he’d gotten to the majors, until hitters just saw fastball, fastball, fastball, and so kept their hands looser, swung faster. Luke’s sophomore slump had come early, the August of his rookie season.

Six months later, at spring training, Hemmings was back—with not one, but two fully developed secondary pitches. He still threw upper and mid-90s, but now he’d gotten control of the changeup he and the pitching coach had begun tinkering with the season prior, and a curveball that no one, not even Luke himself could have seen coming when inspecting his previous body of work. Rather than potentially fighting for his spot in the rotation, Luke secured the number two slot in the rotation that year. He was number one this year, though likely that was due poor management decisions, rather than Luke’s skill. He was good, but when 24-year-olds are starting on Opening Day, it often has less to do with skill and more to do with the front office.

Mike pulled up a long video of strikeouts looking he’d gotten with that curve. After skipping ahead a few minutes, Mike wasn’t too surprised to see Cal’s easy stance on the screen, though his friend looked anything but at ease facing Hemmings. Caught looking—that’s how he’d gotten Cal all three times, that’s why Cal was so pissed about it. Even after knowing the outfielder for only a few weeks, Michael felt it a safe bet to say that those were the only times Hood had been caught looking this season.

As Mike flipped through clips and highlights, he saw one he’d skipped, taken from a different angle. It felt like he was looking right over the home plate umpire’s right shoulder, above the catcher, looking right at Hemmings, at _Luke_. Between pitches, the camera zoomed towards his face, and Mike understood. Luke never took his eyes off the batter’s face—watching with shades of blue as the batter tapped the plate, adjusted his gloves, got set in his stance. His eyes never moved from his opponent. After the second batter bounced into a groundout, Michael realized he’d been holding his breath. There was focused, which Mikey knew he was, Cal was, even Ashton, with his giggling and overinvestment in his “children," was focused on the game, on winning. But Luke’s focus was something else—not on the game, on the pitches he threw, but solely on the batter he faced. Even through the screen, seeing him pitch in a game months gone by, Michael felt trapped, an animal watching a blue-eyed predator watch him, the eyes deadlier than the three pitches he wielded.

Shaking his head and ending the video, Mike wondered how the guy even saw the signs?! He concluded the pitcher was good, potentially great, and he was likely a dick if he ignored his catcher’s signs. It was honestly a wonder that he won a single game—the pitcher and catcher’s battery has to be seamless, the goal is to think as one. A catcher should predict what is pitcher wants, yes, but there was something twistingly _wrong_ about a pitcher just rolling with whatever he wanted, willing the catcher to place the glove where it needed to be, rather than the half-second of planning the signs earned them. He was impressed, annoyed, and glad Luke was on their team. Those eyes burned cold, and he prayed the pitcher behind them was as good a man as he was a baseball player.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sigh, I PROMISE there's dialogue in the next chapter :)


	3. Pop-up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael at the park; we're never going to meet Luke.

**Pop-up—(n.) a specific type of fly ball that goes very high while not traveling very far laterally, caught in flight and thus results in an out**

 

As the three youngest members of the team—though Ashton had already been in the league two full years, a lucky lifetime—Mikey, Calum, and Ash spend a good chunk of time together. Cal and Mike often share a hotel room during away series, have wistfully wondered what it would be like if they didn’t have to stay in, to go to bed early, or straight after a game… but it was a dream neither of them actually hoped for. They’d really only ever wanted one thing:  their shot at the big leagues. Who would trade a few nights of reckless youth for their dream? Ashton went out sometimes; apparently his “rib contusions” and “pulled calf muscles” didn’t prevent him from sightseeing and “finding the local nightlife, boys.”

He was always back in the morning though—they didn’t need his prodding to wake them up, but Ash seemed to think so. He also seemed to think Michael needed to start the same breakfast regime Cal was on, and had convinced the team nutritionist that green smoothies were the only way to go for the rangy third baseman. Most of the team had been pushed into the same thing; the starters a noticeable exception as pitchers are superstitious, more so than any other player, and don’t take kindly to a broken routine, even if it was Sunshine’s idea.

If he’s being honest, Mikey loves it. Playing in the minors was like living as Sisyphus, an endless grind, playing well and pushed down, pushed down and playing well. He…hadn’t hated it, exactly, but it was lonely, and crushing his love of the game. And with players always coming and going in the minors—whether to A, AA, or AAA teams, or rarely, up to the big leagues—there were no chances to get close to anyone. So every time he heard banging on their hotel door as he and Cal blearily pulled on clothes to head to the park, Michael thanked his lucky stars. And his agent. And the front office.

Michael has a morning routine for home games as well. After finding an apartment in the city, one that allowed pets, he’d adopted a cat, a black-and-white shorthair he’d renamed Castaway, as she’d been found slinking down near the piers. Voodoo had been a terrible name, what was the shelter thinking? Of course, that was likely the innate nature of a baseball player to reject bad luck, potential negative vibes, perhaps the same creaky voice in the back of his head that said tap the bag three times before you hit, scratch an “x” into the dirt next to third base before each defensive inning starts.

He feeds Castaway after she wakes him up, grimaces before downing his smoothie (Ash had “graciously” come over his first night at the apartment to stick reminders everywhere. One was to take a smoothie out to thaw every night), made an egg white omelet to compensate, and heads to the park in his sweats, or “swag” as he’d begun to shamefully refer to it, courtesy of Calum.

As he arrives, “Buddyyyyyyy!” speak of the Devil.

Michael often ran into Calum and/or Ashton outside the park, grinning widely and dressed for a jog. That was another thing Ash had tried to bully him into—running to work.

_“Half of our job is running, Ash” Michael had pointed out._

_“So you should be used to it!” piped up Calum._

_“So I should… be used to it? We’ve lost three in a row, should I be used to that?”_

_“Ok, ok, no need to talk about_ that _. No running, understood.”_

_“Maybe if Mr. Wonderful over here would stop getting injured, we wouldn’t have so many blown leads by the bullpen,” grumbled Cal, uncharacteristically turning the needling from Michael._

_Ash just raised his eyebrows at the outfielder, who muttered a stuttered apology before rushing to the players’ entrance of the park._

_“Yikes, well, keep your car then, Clifford, we’ll see who lasts in the bigs into their thirties,” this last Ash called to Mikey over his shoulder as he ran to catch up with Calum. Slinging an arm over the right fielder’s shoulder, “Hey buddy, I thought of a new recipe to try, uses no salt, no dairy…”_

_Mike heard Cal groaning from where he stood looking after them, but could hear the grin in it, the “thanks for forgiving me.”_

But that was a few weeks ago, their luck has changed, and thank god Mike isn’t tired after his late night watching video of Luke Hemmings.

“You look terrible, Clifford.” Ok, maybe he is a little tired, “Been hitting the clubs without your ol’ Cal-pal?”

“Damn right, Hood. The city never knew what hit it.”

“Speaking of hits, how we feeling today? Ready to crack that .270?”

“I break .270, you break .335, deal?”

“No deal! This guy—“

“C’mon Cal, you’re streaking! You got it! So what if he’s coming off three wins, so what if he’s in Cy Young contention?”

Cal blanches, “…what?! I thought it was only two wins! And the Cy Young, are you serious? This guy’s a number three starter _at best_. And…” he trails off before happily punching Mike in the shoulder, grinning as he hastens down the corridor to the clubhouse.

That was the thing about Calum, and Mikey had taken no time to figure it out. The other rookie knew all the facts, the stats, the ins and outs of the pitchers he faced; he studied as hard as any battery did. But the morning of some games, after a night of talking them up in his head, Cal made every pitcher a Hall of Famer, made every pitch as dangerous as a Koufax curveball. He just needed reminding of the actual skills of the man he was facing, needed to come back to the facts. And the most important fact was that Calum could hit, that he had confidence in his swing.

He catches up with Calum where he stands with Ashton and a few other teammates, looking over at a group of reporters clustered around a tall man with blonde hair and his half-full locker.

“They got let in for some reason,” Ashton stage-whispers to Michael, “Seems the new guy is already a hit with the press.”

“As long as he giving _them_ hits and not other teams, we’ll be fine,” smirks their backup catcher, a veteran at thirty-two, before sloping off to his locker. The little knot of players breaks up after that, as do the press once the GM comes out of his office to shoo them away and make sure the team is dressed in their warmups for batting practice.

Ash follows Michael to where their lockers stand side-by-side, so Mike doesn’t want to look back to inspect the new pitcher. He wasn’t starting today—his first game was in two days—so he wouldn’t join the team for BP, would likely familiarize himself with the locker room, the dugout, and the rest of the pitching staff.

“Still nervous about the ecosystem?”

Michael looks over at the reliever, surprised, before responding, “Equilibrium, actually, but I guess it’d be cool to save the whales too.”

“Whatever, blame Cal for whatever was lost in translation. It’s just a new guy. Four weeks ago he was you.”

“I know, I know. Hey, I’m a rook, aren’t I allowed lapses in judgement?” Mikey chuckles.

“Suuuure, when they don’t include nervous and unfounded grudges that don’t put a multi-million dollar organization at risk.”

Michael flinches, but Ash affectionately slaps him on the shoulder, then his helmet, before waltzing off towards Hemmings.

As Michael jogs up the dugout steps, bat in hat, and over to home plate for a few swings, he wonders how Ash will fare with the new guy. He’s younger, like him and Ash and Cal, and yeah, Calum has worked up a lifetime of slights over four at-bats against Hemmings, but Mike is certain Ash could slap a Band-aid on that, rope the guy in, tie the four of them together. He hopes it’ll be that easy, dreads the pitcher will infect the team with his cold attitude. Both guesses turn out to be wrong.


	4. Home Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meeting Luke Hemmings!?

**Home Run—(n.) (abbreviated HR, also "homer", "dinger", "blast", or "four-bagger") is scored when the ball is hit in such a way that the batter is able to circle the bases and reach home safely in one play, often results after the batter hits the ball over any outfield fence**

 

“Mikey! Introduce yourself to the—to Luke!” Ash shouts to Micahel’s turned back. Of course he has to use his nickname; was there a single player that used his real name anymore? Not that he minds, too much, but usually ballplayers just stuck to last names, anything to keep it macho, and Michael didn’t want Luke to just see him as a kid, another fly to vaporize with those lightning eyes. But no, “Mikey” he was to Ash, and now he’d be “Mikey” to Luke as well.

After stripping to his undershirt, a black tank that, yes, had the team logo on it, and shucking off the socks that made him look like an “old-school” player, Michael makes his way through the excited team. They’d won that night, were pleased with their command of the lead in the standings, and eager at the prospect of a day off tomorrow. Ash and Hemmings are talking near the latter’s locker, and Mike collars Cal on the way, dragging the right fielder behind him. To his credit and Michael’s surprise, Calum doesn’t complain, only pulls himself out of Michael’s grip and follows, tossing his gloves vaguely back in the direction of his locker.

“I was just telling Luke here that he’s a lucky boy, joining such a skilled and handsome team. Of course, these two are rather obvious exceptions,” Cal shoots Ashton a…pout? Glare? Sometimes Michael finds it hard to tell with those two. Ashton amends, “well, one’s skilled, one’s handsome.”

“Skilled!” Michael and Cal chorus.

Luke looks a little stricken, and though Mike understands that Ash is a bit much sometimes, he carefully avoids the man’s eyes, addressing the front of his new uniform.

“Hey, I’m Luke…no, Michael, you’re Luke. Michael,” he points to himself, “Luke,” and points to Luke. Shit, shit shit shit. And after all that, he _still_ hasn’t looked up completely.

It's quiet at first, so he thinks it's Calum, but when those near-silent chuckles melt into a high-pitched peal of laughter, Mike finally looks up. By then though, Luke has plonked onto the bench in front of his locker, nearly cackling with glee.

“Shit, it wasn’t that bad,” he's horrified, at himself, with Hemmings. This guy really _is_  a dick.

“No, no, oh my god,” Hemmings stands back up, placing his foot on the bench instead and slouching over it, “I totally needed that. Everyone, your buddy Ashton excluded, has been slapping me on the shoulder,” he demonstrates on Calum, who looks as though he’d like to cut off the offending hand, “and ‘Good to have you, man!’”

Honestly, Michael had missed everything after Luke stood back up. This isn’t the guy he’d watched film of last night! Too late, he remembers he’d meant to watch some interviews too. If he had, maybe he wouldn’t have been so nervous. Luke just looks  _happy_ , the steel of his eyes replaced by the calm of an inland sea.

“It _is_ good to have you on the team though!” chirps Ashton after a sideways look at a stunned and staring Michael.

“Yeah, good,” grumbles Calum.

“See, Calum here is still annoyed that he struck out against you months ago,” explains the reliever, “But I don’t know why, I mean it was only four turns at-bat, that’s not enough to—“

“Gee Irwin, ’s real nice of you to air all this out, but I gotta get changed,” with that, Calum turns and stomps away, a lone streak of anger in the bustling joy of the locker room.

“Cal…um?” Michael trails off, finding his voice and losing it just as quickly, torn between trying to talk to Luke again, _looking_ at Luke, and making sure Calum is ok.

“’S ok, I got him. See you tomorrow, Luke; I’ll take you to that café,” to Michael, it seems like Cal and Ashton are always running after each other.

“He said something about flourless and sugarless muffins, that’s a joke right?”

Michael's snaps back to attention, snorts, “Um, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but no. Welcome to the team?”

And suddenly, it's easy. Luke studiously avoids bringing up Calum’s behavior, and Michael hopes it's because he figures it is a sore subject, not because Luke has totally forgotten about ever facing the hitting prodigy. They chatter about the night’s game, about Luke’s flight the night before, about Ashton’s reputation around the league…It was all going to be ok, Michael thinks.

“So, ready to head out? I’m meeting the catcher, Lewis, tomorrow morning to talk over my first game for you guys.”

With that, Michael snaps back to his theory from last night—that Hemmings must completely ignore his batterymate in order to narrow his focus to the batter alone. He doesn’t think it would be good to bring that up now, though, and he’s not keen on adding to his list of poor ideas where Luke is concerned.

“Yeah, let me grab my bag.”

They walk out together, leave the sounds of the cleaning staff behind them, and Michael adds “Drop off uniform for washing” to the mental checklist for his day off. Seeing Luke pull out his phone and bring up the Lyft app, Michael asks if he wanted a ride.

“Yeah man, that’d be great. I’m at a hotel until I can find an apartment, and without a car until someone can drive mine out. Sucks.”

“It’s fine, I was living in a hotel my first week or so too. Where you at?”

“A Shereton. I remember reading you were newer too,” Luke rubs at the back of his neck after he slings his bags in the trunk next to Michael’s duffle, “I researched a lot about the team on my flight over,” he easily chuckles.

“Lame,” Michael replies quickly before widening his eyes and shooting an apologetic look over at the pitcher in his passenger seat.

“It’s fine! Gosh dude, relax. You’re refreshing. Not ‘bro,’ you know?”

Mike thinks about “swag” and decides to just nod and smile.

They get to the hotel quickly, unsurprising that late at night with no traffic.

“Hey, you think I can tell Irwin to take a raincheck? He’d buy that I have a 'thing' about having to eat red meat only on days before I pitch?”

“You’re fine. You should probably still meet with him though. Ask if he wants a jog,” Michael cracks up at Luke horrified expression.

“Like, I know it’s our responsibility to keep in shape and all, but why the fuck would I go above and beyond?!”

As he unlocks the truck, Michael tries, and failes, to stop giggling long enough to say good night to Luke.

“Whatever. See ya later, Mikey.”

With the nickname in Luke’s mouth, suddenly it doesn’t sound so kiddy.

 

As Mike flops into bed after feeding an alarmingly loud Castaway, he thinks maybe everything is gonna be good. The worry has all but disappeared.


	5. Extra Innings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nice to have an off-day

**Extra Innings—(n.) the extension of a baseball game in order to break a tie**

 

It seems like there are never enough days off for a baseball player. In football, they play a game a week for sixteen-odd weeks. Basketball players play every other night, most of the time, and don’t play series. Michael doesn’t know a lot about hockey, other than that those guys are _intense_ , but it seems like they shouldn’t physically be able to play every day, not with that level of beating. Not that he’s complaining, because baseball is what he loves to do, and it’s truly the major sport with the least contact, but an extra day or two per month would go a long way.

Of course, he still has to go to the field today—still has to work out and bring his uni for washing and have an infielders’ meeting. Like Calum and himself, the first baseman is a rook, though he’s 27. Not a phenom, then, but what has to come close to the longest wingspan in the league, and good pop to his bat. The short-stop and second baseman are both 29, in the later stages of their contracts, and playing for extensions. Michael’s ridiculously thankful that’s not him yet, but the team as a whole is having such a good year, he can’t imagine anything major changing next season.

As Castaway snuggles even further under him arm, Michael remembers his late night with Luke, and how different the man was than he expected. How…not cold and nontoxic. There was something light about Luke, something soft that camouflaged his hardness on the mound, maybe even made that strength possible.

Mike shakes away all thoughts of Luke and struggles out of his bed. Somehow, since starting in the majors, he’s been making his bed tighter and tighter, and though it makes him feel incredibly safe crawling in at night, it makes no difference in the mornings—the sheets and blanket would be kicked about, tangling him until he grew still in the early hours every morning.

He wasn’t heading to the park until noon, didn’t even have to be there until one, so that leaves him with a little less than two hours to kill. As he bustles about, drinking his smoothie and staring wistfully at the unused coffeemaker, he thanked all the stars that he was able to fall back asleep that morning after his regular alarms went off. He never turns those off completely, not even on weekends he didn’t have practice back in high school; he almost likes the jolt  of consciousness in the mornings, but it's even better on off-days, knowing he could drop back under if he wants. This morning, he’d wanted to.

Blinking, he remembers sleepily noticing a text from Calum earlier.

—Sorry for the attitude man. Catch you later?

Michael frowns, his friend doesn't need to apologize to him…or to Luke either, if he's being honest. They're grown men, they play a literal game for a full-time job, they don’t need to make peace over every slight, imagined or otherwise. There's no way he—or Ash, hopefully—want to push Calum to see a wrong when he sees none.

Oddly, he feels like he's on autopilot. This is only his third day off since coming to the big leagues, but the hour and a half he spends bustling about his apartment belies a deeply ingrained habit. Mike has always been a homebody, even after he left for college, but this is different…he feels domestic. He feels like an adult.

Like this is right and his life is right.

He decides to drop by the café Ash and Luke are meeting at. True, it is the opposite direction of the stadium, and he’ll have to work out after his player meeting rather than before, but it will be fine. If he can find a decent pastry there as well, it'll be definitely worth it.

So after throwing on a pair of jeans and a tee with the local NBA team’s logo across the front, Michael double-checks that his uniforms—clean and dirty both—are in his duffle, pleads with Castaway to leave the couch alone, and leaves the apartment.

It's still so strange to see people in team gear, “swag,” whispers Cal from the back of his head, and remember that this is _his_ team, that a few of them sport “Clifford” and “10” in support of _him_. Only one group of fans asks for his signature, which ss a far cry from the rare occasions he ventures from the park or his home on game days.

Stepping into the little shop, Mike waves at an oblivious Ashton as he ambles into line. He studiously ignores the signs advertising carob scones and when it's his turn, leans over the counter to conspiratorially whisper "Calum’s carrot cake" to the girl at the register. She raises an eyebrow at him while the other barista chokes down her laughter.

“Yeah, coming right up. That’ll be $3.48, we’ll bring it over to you.”

Michael smiles thankfully at her and sighs inwardly, glad Cal’s “cheat code” for the café still works. Sure the outfielder loves to support, and accompany, Ashton’s jogging and hiking, adventuring and “hey-what’s-that?” tendencies, but he usually makes every effort to rebel against his food recommendations, unless they come through the team trainer or nutritionist.

“Calum’s carrot cake” is _actually_ cake—but dense like banana bread, that somehow has the frosting baked right in, so it's not obvious that it is horrifically unhealthy. It looks like any other of Ashton’s treasured pastries and baked goods—bland and dry, though it's anything but. Cal’s favorite, and it was quickly becoming Mikey’s as well.

“Hey man, get ditched?”

Irwin looks up, “Nah, I just got here early. They make a great spinach protein juice,” he says, gesturing to the empty container unsteadily perched on the arm of his chair.

“Sure, of course,” Michael feels sort of strange lingering—it had made sense for him to wait with Ashton and Luke while they brought out his cake, to joke with them, throw a wave and an insult on his way out, but it doesn’t exactly work as a casual thing if he's waiting around for the new pitcher to arrive. He leans awkwardly on the arm of the sofa facing Ash.

“Yeah, gonna order one for Luke too. I know he’s eating meat today, so no scones, but a little juice never hurt anyone,” Michael is too glad Ash hasn’t noticed his uncomfortable stance to make any effort to dissuade Ashton from roping Luke in to his delusions of “healthy team, healthy record.”

The barista finds them quickly—Michael's forgotten a beanie and his hair is pretty easy to track down. “I brought a bag; you want it to go or…?” she asked, noticing his half-standing, half-sitting pose.

“To-go is great, thanks,” as she slides the cake into the little paper bag, Ashton pipes up again.

“You’re going? You don’t want to say hello to Hemmings?”

“Yeah, gotta get to the park,” taking the bag, Michael finally stands, stretches, accidentally brushing his fingers against one of the low-hanging lights. He grunts in surprise, sticking his fingers in his mouth to ease the sting that felt like a burn, but was likely just the shock. Ashton giggles as he finishes “Luke’s pretty cool, a good dude. Quit trying to rope him into stuff though, you’ve got Calum doing enough for you.”

"With me," even sitting, feet shorter than Michael, Ashton radiates authority, “Hush up Cliffo, I could get your car keys at any time—Calum and I would _love_ you to join our jogs.” He grins, but Mike knew how serious Ash was about the threat—he's the most driven on the team, and not just to win, but to excel, to prove, to make their names go down in history. Michael feels that's why he gives so much outside of the ballpark—he was too often sidelined; even when healthy a reliever doesn’t play every game. He's stuck off the field, so he thrives where he isn’t, and his eyes promise to make the same of Michael.

Ducking his head, making sure Ashton looks back up at him before he speaks, Michael lowers his voice, “Ash, I promise to someday jog with you and Calum. Pinky promise. But Luke met the team _yesterday_. And us—you, me, Cal—are a lot,” the relievers face creases into that boundless smile, “so bully him, yeah, but _chill_.”

“I guess you’re not worried anymore?” he asks almost immediately.

“Nah,” replies Michael, and turns to go.

* * *

 

Not ten minutes later, his phone dings with a message from an unknown number, an out-of-state area code.

_—Dude, Just missed ya_

_—It’s Luke_

_—Hemmings_

_—New guy_

As the typing bubble appears again, Michael hastily replies.

**—I got it, got it!**

_—Ok, cool_

**—Yeah**

**—Good luck today**

_—Tomorrow? I pitch tomorrow_

**—Yeah, but you’re spending time with Ashton today…**

_—So far so good :-)_

_—Quit warning me off your friends Clifford_

_—Plus ash is the one that gave me your number_

**—Guess I should warn them off you then**

_—Ur mean_

_—:-)_

_—Gtg_

**—Later**

And that was…odd. Luke asked Ashton for his number?

Ok, it isn’t that weird, and anyway, Michael really needs to pay attention to where he was going.

Twenty or so minutes later, pastry long gone, he's walking through the corridor to the clubhouse, listening to the quiet discussions amongst his teammates in the locker room ahead of him. He hears a familiar wheeze of laughter and hurries forward, just in time to see Calum and the centerfielder slap hands, mime flashing their chests, jump into a spin, and high-five midair. He walks over to them, “New handshake?”

“New win celebration for the outfielders, maybe?”

“Thoughts?” he and Jeffries don’t talk much, but he likes the centerfielder enough to throw him a smirk.

“Nice. Think you could jump higher though? Maybe a high kick? We _are_ athletes after all.”

“So rude,” mumbles Calum as he shoves Mike’s shoulder, “Let’s leave Sourpatch to himself, guy’s not even dressed yet.”

“Bye Michael,” Jeffries grinned, as did Calum to show he wasn’t mad in the slightest.

It's all the opening Michael needs, and he really can’t help himself anyway, “How’re you even going to incorporate another person into that? There are _three_ outfielders, if you remember!”

Calum just raises both arms and flips him off as he marches across the locker room, and Michael feels a rush of joy as he walks to his own locker.

The feeling of home still clings to him, through his visit to the café, his walk through the streets, his brief conversation with Luke. And yeah, that _is_ weird, partly because he’s only known Cal, Ash, the rest of the team for a month, but he’s known _Luke_ for all of a damn day.

He shakes that off—personal life positivity aside, he has a job to do. Searching for the other infielders, he hurriedly chucks his dirty uniforms into the laundry bin and makes his way to one of the smaller rooms off the main area of the clubhouse. The first baseman, Hank (it was Henkeiner, but Hank was easier, and no one called him Thomas), nods at him; Juan Campos grins and pats his shoulder after Michael sat down. Cantor comes in immediately afterwards, carrying four water bottles.

“Ok, nothing much to go over today boys. We’ve got the new guy tomorrow for the opener of the Reds series, so we should get a decent number of strikeouts, a lot of groundouts,” Brent Cantor has been on the team the longest of the infielders—he plays second, and everyone says he’ll be on a coaching staff, even manage one day, after his career on the field is over. “He might have some issues, kid’s still young so he’s only worked with one catcher consistently while in the majors. Might run into issues if he lets anyone on base.”

He looks around at them, silently asking if they have any questions. Campos, like many of his fellow players from South and Central America, doesn’t speak a lot of English, but understands it well, and simply nods his assurance to Cantor. Hank, who was unimaginatively called “Stretch” in the minors, and who Michael thinks is the sternest of the starting lineup, nods too, opens his mouth to contribute.

“I think Hemmings will be fine tomorrow. Saw some video of him from last week when they played the Nationals. Beautiful out there.”

And Michael nods along; even though he hasn’t seen footage of that game, he’s seen more than enough of Luke to know what to expect.

“So, beyond Hemmings, we have a decent road trip starting in four days. No time to settle in, we’re playing an AL game, so don’t any of you dare get injured. Moreover, a four game series after the roadtrip, with the Dodgers, who will be jonesing to leap us in the standings. We take it one day at a time, but we win _those_ games, ok fellas?”

Mikey can’t help it, “Aye aye, captain!”

Cantor shoots him a bemused look before smiling, “’M not a skipper yet kid. Ease up or you’ll send me to early retirement.”

Campos laughs, really lets go, at that, and Michael sees a few guys in the locker room turn towards the open door.

“Get outta here boys. Good luck tomorrow, see you before BP.”

They all get up, Mike last of all—now he has to work out. Sure, he likes feeling strong and healthy, loves being able to do the things he can do on the field, but he doesn’t have to be in love with the weightroom to be a good ballplayer. Right?

As he changes into shorts and a team-issue white tee, Michael realizes he still feels good, great, peaceful. He can’t wait to get onto the field tomorrow.


	6. Batting Practice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not nerves, that Michael feels before Luke's first game with the team, but it's certainly something

**Batting Practice—(n.) The period, often before a game, when players warm up or practice their hitting technique**

 

It’s not quite right to say that Michael is nervous the next morning. There are no butterflies as he goes through his morning routine, as he navigates traffic to the park. Really, he’s more worried about getting to the park in one piece than he is about the game. Against all advice, he insists on driving to through the ludicrous city traffic, rather than taking public transportation or, god, _jogging_.

Something about driving, having his own car, just feels like another extension of responsibility, of control. Just like he owns the patch of field around third base, so too does he own whatever patch of road the wheels of his Hyundai roll over. Not that Michael is a control freak—he’s in the wrong line of work if that’s the case—but he likes to have some sort of measure, degree, of responsibility if he’s going to die in a few tons of metal. And wow, this is taking a wildly negative turn.

Michael isn’t worried he’ll screw up today, he’s not worried about Luke screwing up. But he feels…something, good or bad, wrong or right. And it’s not going to affect him, but it isn’t going away and it _is_ messing with his headspace. Baseball players rely on routine, on consistent and repeated actions both on and off the field that, if deviated from, will derail a player’s performance. And it’s not as serious for him, or most position players, but there was a pitcher not too long ago that only ate enchiladas the night before a start. He’d known the best place in every single city for them, and never skipped it. Mike wasn’t that bad, he didn’t think anyone on the team was _that_ bad, but yeah, he preferred to have a grilled cheese before day games but fruit snacks and a wrap before night games. And he had to be the last to leave the locker room, had to make sure the lights were off when they all went to the dugout.

So, with a little niggle in his gut, a voice a little louder than his usual superstitious whisperer, Mike rolled up to the park. Too often to be coincidence, he’ll meet Calum and Ashton in the private parking lot, and today’s no different. They’re a bit sweaty, hyped as a pair of puppies, and jostling each other on their way to his car.

“Mikey! You made it!”

“Um, I wasn’t aware that was in question, Ash. Should I just, go, then?”

Calum takes Michael’s bag from his shoulder, hands him Ash’s backpack in trade. Michael has long ago stopped guessing at whatever superstition drives Cal to never carry his own bag, or let anyone else carry their own, “Aww, buddy, you know Ashton’s just razzing you. I would too, if I wasn’t on top of the world right now.”

“I guess that’s a good place to be—make sure you come back down by batting practice.”

They walk down the corridor together, three large bodies barely fitting side-by-side-by-side.

“Still out Ash? What is it, a week-long hangover?”

“Broken blisters, actually. Didn’t even notice I had them until I was bleeding all over the place” and wow, Mike’s surprised. That’s an unexpectedly normal injury for the reliever; it’s a rather common injury among pitchers, which explains why Ashton hasn’t risen to Michael’s bait.

“Going to be ok?”

Cal leans around Michael to watch Ashton's response, “You know it man! Can’t keep me down for long.”

Mike pats Ashton’s shoulder, knocks Calum’s cap off his head, “see you fellas out there then,” and takes his bag back from Cal, who, to his credit, only throws an unopened bag of sunflower seeds at him in retaliation. Last time it had been an open package, and it was an enormous mess.

He sees Luke standing near his locker, chatting with another pitcher, and while yeah, he and Luke had gotten on well the other night, and it’d been no issue texting him a bit yesterday, Michael doesn’t want to go over there, potentially mess up the man’s headspace, just to wish him luck. Honestly, he doesn’t need it. Michael knows.

Once he’s changed, he tucks a Sharpie into the back pocket of his uniform, opposite his black batting gloves. He’s not supposed to, and he’ll leave it in the cubby with his batting helmet once the game starts, but when he signs things for fans during the few minutes after warming up, he hates having to turn away people just because they don’t have a pen, especially kids. He _hates_ that, because he has been that kid. His family started going to Major League games after he joined the baseball team in high school, after he’d fallen in love with the game, but years earlier, before he’d ever dreamed of stepping out onto that wide green field in front of thousands of fans, his uncle had taken him to a game. He remembered that day, embarrassed but excited, clutching a brand new jersey with a name on it he couldn’t even read yet. Another fan had lent his uncle a permanent marker, so Mikey’d gotten the signature after all.

He snaps back to today. The minutes and moments before first pitch stretch and melt away like the ice cream still foolishly sold in southern ballparks. The other team has first ups, as the home team always bats last, so as they’re announced, Mike jogs onto the field, finally catching Luke’s eye and tapping his cap. He’s not sure, it was a fraction of a half-second, but he thinks Hemmings saw him, had crinkled his nose, twitched an eye. So, as the first batter is announced, he is not at all prepared for the quiet calamity this game brings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this one's a bit shorter, but that's because the last one turned out long! I've started some rewrites, but hopefully another chapter out before SLFL this weekend!!
> 
> Also, I got so sidetracked the other day and scribbled down a ~five years later~ thing, and it's so so cute. Going to be excited to publish that after this fic is done :)


	7. Slider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hemmings' first game with his new team; an unexpected play (literally)

**Slider—(n.) a breaking ball pitch that tails laterally and down through the batter's hitting zone; it is thrown with speed less than a fastball but greater than the pitcher's curveball**

 

It’s really not as bad as it could have been, not even close. They actually win the game, though you’d never guess from watching the pitcher’s face, his actions. It’s Calum’s walk-off hit that does it; a drive to left that’s an absolute earth-shaker, the kind that foretells championships and rings, contract extensions and the Hall of Fame. That’s how it feels, to the whole team. Except their newest, Luke. Except Michael, when he gets back to the locker room.

The thing about Cal’s hit, is that it wasn’t just monstrous, it’s that it fell in, it _wasn’t_ the homer it looked and sounded like right from the smack of bat on ball. It won the game, sure; it was what they needed, but it wasn’t at all what anyone expected. Like first eight and a half innings, the last half-inning was a round of roulette.

They’ve faced the Reds before, obviously, but only once since Michael’s joined the team. He has his misgivings, but Michael is a professional, and he plays like one despite the niggle in his stomach. He hasn’t made an error yet since getting to the bigs, though he’d probably deck anyone who mentioned it to him. Then he’d knock on some wood. Luke was a started with the Pirates, so he’s faced this Reds team several times this season, and alternate iterations of them in his two year’s prior. So when, in the second inning, with runners on second and third with no outs, it’s fair to say that Michael is shocked by what’s transpired in the game so far.

The stadium, so used to rollicking, had gone silent, numb. At third base, Mikey has one of the best views of the batter’s box, and beyond that, the visiting team’s dugout. The Reds have scored twice already this inning, and the Cincinnati team’s cheers seems to be the only source of noise in the whole park. Their cheers, and the crack of their bats as they’ve launched ball after ball over the heads of the infielders. Mike doesn’t need to see Luke’s face to know the problem—he’s not _there_ , doesn’t have the focus he needs to zero in on batters. He’d gotten out of the first with no runs in, got the Reds to strand two runners. This inning has been going downhill from the beginning, and as the opposing team’s pitcher steps up to the plate, Michael prays with every fiber of his being for an easy out, a quick out, that the spirit of Christy Mathewson will come down and possess Luke’s arm.

Not exactly. More like the spirit of a cup-and-shell hustler.

His first pitch, ball one. Second, ball two, and Michael can practically see the steam coming out of the new guy’s ears. A shrug of determination, a last grasp at control, the third pitch elicits a slow-rolling dribbler, acting like a bunt— _had_ he bunted? Michael steps onto third base as the runner next to him—Altez—makes to run home. Luke, with the catcher, first baseman, and third basemen tied up with the baserunners, charges the ball. Michael watches the runner from second hurtle towards him out of the corner of his eye. Luke gets to the still-rolling baseball before any of the runners touch base, snatches it up with his free hand and whips it towards…third, to Michael!

Slow rollers should _always_ be thrown to first, getting for the easy out Michael prayed for, even when it allows a run to score. This is not the play Hemmings is making.

And Mike knows why the ball is flying at him. Luke’s eyes have burnt it into him in the millisecond before he throws—focused eyes, but without the ice he ought to have. Luke’s not panicking, but there is something very like it in the blues that swirl out at Michael, and he knows why Luke has gone to him. Michael catches the ball, steps on the bag—which gets the runner form  second out, and throws home. Thankfully, the catcher, Leighman, is grounded at home plate, waiting for Mike’s throw, is ready. He catches the ball, lungs at the runner—and the home plate umpire thrusts his fist in front of him.

The crowd erupts. The _dugout_ erupts, and Mike can hear Ashton whooping.

He can’t believe his eyes. After pulling off one of the most insane, gutsy, foolish double plays, Luke has trudged back to the mound. He’s prevented a run, has gotten two outs, but he could have been setting up for the first pitch of the game all over again if his blank expression, stiff shoulders, are any indication.

After getting the next batter to pop out, Luke’s not-really-that-bad inning is over. As they descend the dugout steps, no one speaks to Luke, but their manager’s silent gaze shouts volumes. Yes, Hemming’s gamble has paid off, but pride is a stupid reason to take risks. Luke’s a grown man, he won’t be in trouble…but he’ll be in trouble.

Hemmings allows a solo shot in the next inning, and a second homer in the sixth, scoring two runs. He leaves the game after that, with no outs recorded, to a smattering of applause, his head lowered. The bullpen shuts down the Reds from there, and yes, they win.

After the game, as the echoing cheers chase them into the clubhouse, he notices. When a player is injured or ejected, they often (or have to) leave the dugout and retreat to the lockers. So too do dejected or frustrated pitchers. Judging by Luke’s locker, uniform crumpled on the floor and an open water bottle dripping into two pairs of shoes, it’s the latter. And finally, the hole in Michael’s stomach blooms, worry threading out and up his spine.

It was one game, a no-decision for Luke, but it had been his first start with them, a game for a post-season level team, and a win that was supposed to prove and inspire. He understands, yet hates, Luke’s behavior.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, another slightly shorter one, but the next is loooooong :) I have SLFL this weekend, but I still hope to get it up on Sunday!


	8. In the Stretch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation; a resolution

**In the Stretch—(prep. phrase) officially called “the set,” one of two legal pitching positions. Often has a faster execution and is therefore preferable when there are baserunners**

 

It’s been over a week. They’re in the middle of an eight-game road trip. Everything is business as usual in the clubhouse—exactly as it was before Hernandez was sent down to work on his command and Hemmings arrived at the ballpark. Which is to say, Luke is a ghost. Yes, he’s been around, sitting forebodingly with the other pitchers during games he doesn’t start, speaking only to the manager, the pitching coach, his catcher; most importantly, pitching a sublime game in his next start. He goes seven full innings this time, only leaving because of a high pitch count, which isn’t even his fault. Part of it was that Cantor’d had a rare error that allowed a runner to advance to third, as well as got the man up to bat on to first. It should’ve been an easy double play, and Michael had expected Luke to scream into his glove, or venomously glare at Cantor, something. He’d been quiet, still, already focused on the next batter, the next out.

That’s all the other team was to Luke. A series of twenty-seven outs.

_Mike had asked their catcher about Luke, the morning they flew to Colorado. Leighman was in his early thirties, still had good knees. Some catchers could catch until 40, but they are few and far between. The position takes it out of a man’s knees, his back, his hips—he’s part of every pitch, up and down out of a crouch, “the squat,” constantly. Leighman, Clark, was durable; though he had a few more days off than other position players, that was more convention, a part of the position, rather than a result of pain or necessity._

_After boarding the team jet, Michael hustled to sit next to Leighman, all planned out what he’s ask, er, casually bring up. Calum didn’t seem to notice, dropping immediately into a seat and conking back out. It was_ early _, after all. He felt Ashton’s raised brows on the back of his head. Of course, that could have had more to do with the same thing that prompted Leighman’s first words._

_“Black, Clifford?”_

_“Oh,” he ran a hand through his hair, now jet black, “I figured I probably shouldn’t match the Nats when we play them in a few days.”_

_“We just finished up with the literal_ Reds _,” Leighman laughed, loud and still sleep-roughened, “_ and _the Diamondbacks before them!”_

_“Yeah, but it’s the_ Nationals _! Hate ‘em.”_

_“Whatever, kid. Ya look great, it’ll be cool for Metallica Night during the next homestand.”_

_“Thanks Leighman,” he relaxed into the seat. That was one of the best things—best little things—about the moving up to the majors. Yes, he was and would likely always be a little bit of a nervous flier, but their jet seats were oversized, made to fit overgrown athletes. Yes, he wasn’t as large as Hank, or as broad as Luke (who could be?), but at more than just a nudge over six feet, Michael had suffered in the commercial flights minor leaguers took…when he wasn’t miserable on a bus._

_After the plane had reached altitude, and ensuring the players around them had headphones in, were asleep, and weren’t Luke, Mike spoke up._

_“All’s good?” ok, that wasn’t a great start._

_“Yeah man, what’s up?”_

_“Just...you know how Luke, Hemmings, Luke didn’t have a great first game, but, you know, it wasn’t that bad? He just…reacted bad?”_

_Leighman’s face was bemusedly blank, a stark contrast to his regular easy smile. Michael began again._

_“Like, you’ve seen his film, right? His look, his eyes? The focus? You met with his the day before the game—how did it go?”_

_The catcher’s face finally broke, “Yup, I know what you’re saying Clifford. He looks like he doesn’t care about the signs,” he leaned in to Michael, “you should stop telling Irwin things; the whole team knew you were a mess practically before the trade itself was announced,” Leighman finished with a kindly smirk._

_“You…you’re shitting me! His next injury isn’t going to be a damn mystery, I guarantee that!” A few_ shhhs _floated their way._

_“Easy Cliffo, now you know. No need to worry about that stuff. World could go any day, this plane might fall out of the sky, we could get the designated hitter here in the National League.”_

_“Ugh, don’t joke about that.”_

_“Fair point. But back to your point, Hemmings is actually great to work with.”_

_Mike just sent him a skeptical look, willing him to elaborate. He did._

_“Hemmings is_ thorough _. As batters, we study a pitcher the night before, the day of, a game. But pitchers and catchers study an entire lineup every single game. We plan how to attack their best hitters, go over which pitches worked in the last game, what worked against that team last time, what to do in xyz situation. We have to,” he paused, sighing. “Look, I’ve been in the league a long time, seems like, and I’ve caught for five different teams. I’m not saying Hemmings is the best pitcher I’ve worked with—he’s not, he won’t be. But he’s the most dedicated, and it’s only been one start. Kid goes all in, makes a complete plan for not just the best hitters, but_ all _of them. Plans not for every bad situation, but damn near all of them. It’s—”_

_“Impossible?”_

_“Yeah, kid, nearly. It’s a helluva lot of work for me, but I can get it done. We plan each at-bat, see? He patterns his pitches, but it’s such a convolution that it’ll take years for other teams to figure it out. I don’t know what it’ll be like when we face the Pirates, but I hope he’s changed his plan as he’d be predictable for a catcher with that much experience working with him. Think he has though. Kid’s real smart.”_

_“Still seems…insane. You can’t plan for everything. What about when he_ has _to look at the signs?”_

_“Didn’t really have to last time. Plus, I’m sure he sees them, they’re just not that necessary. He never needs to shake me off, since we both already know what’s next, and after that, and after that. Of course, game didn’t go as Hemmings’d hoped, but he was with a new catcher, backed by a new team, had to be tough. Be almost worried if there wasn’t a hiccup…won though, didn’t we?”_

_“Yes…but he was so…I don’t know, beat up afterwards. He’d been talking to Ash and I the day before—and the day he arrived—but not at all since. I don’t think he’s spoken to anyone!”_

_“Easy. Clifford, it’s not your job to make friends, it’s to support the guy. Make him feel welcome, but don’t push any damn pitcher,” Leighman kept his smile, but Michael knew this was serious. This was what made or broke games. Trust. Trusting your men to take the load, trusting yourself to pick it up when they couldn’t._

_“You—you’re right. He just needs time. It’ll be fine.”_

_“It will. We good now, Nightwing?”_

_Mikey grinned, “That make you Batman?”_

_“Nah, never. I’d need to be taller. Hemmings can be your Batman, the kid’s broad enough for it.”_

_“Yeah…Thanks Clark—hey, Superman!”_

_“Rest up for the rest of the flight, got it Clifford?”_

_Michael did shut his eyes until they touched down in Denver, but he didn’t sleep. He was somewhat comforted by what Leighman had said, but he still wanted to speak to Luke, to give him his trust, to help him settle. Luke pitched their second game against the Rockies—he wanted to make things ok by then._

It took a little longer than that, but not much. In less than a week, everything would be ok, but not as he expected.

* * *

 Luke’s second game with the team is a marvel. He pitches a full seven innings, only allowing one two-run homer—a common curse in the thin air and small dimensions of Coors Field. It’s this first reason that also pushes Luke out of the game. They have a four-run lead, and the manager doesn’t like to push his pitchers where the air is so thin. Luke goes easy—Michael can see the steel fall from his eyes.

He hadn’t been able to speak to Luke before the game yesterday, or during it, after, before today’s game…He’s not sure if he’s chickening out, or if there just hasn’t been a good opportunity, one that wouldn’t damage the fragile scaffolding of a professional pitcher. And sure, maybe Luke wouldn’t have a problem with Michael bothering him, but Michael doesn’t _know_.

So he’d done nothing.

Calum had though—his job. In the third, after Luke allows the homer, with one out, the Rockies catcher knocks a shot into deep right center. It’s an excellent hit, likely a double, or would be had the fantastic hitter in right field not made the best defensive play of his first season in the bigs.

It’s across the field from Michael, he wouldn’t be involved in this play unless Cal somehow overthrows the ball after scooping it up and it gets past Campos, covering second base. So he’s watching the ball fall, gets into a loose position behind the shortstop, and misses Calum’s dive. He doesn’t miss Ashton’s cheer though, nor the horns Luke flashes to right field—indicating two outs—followed by pointing right to Cal.

Michael can’t see Luke’s face, but as Calum jogs back to his position, he sees him smile like a beacon and thinks, “well, that’s one thing solved.”

Like Michael figured from the beginning, Calum was easy—he gave it all to the team that gave him a chance to play defense, and that doesn’t leave a lot of room for casual grudges or senseless vendettas. Luke still hasn’t opened up since his first start, but the simple acknowledgement of Cal’s success on the field had instantly knocked down all the (admittedly one-sided) tension. It was enough, and Michael should probably get back into the game, but he can’t avoid the little flare of hope within him—that maybe he can talk to Luke again, make him part of the team, for good.


	9. Walkoff

**Walkoff** **—(n.) the home team scores a run to take the lead in the bottom of the 9th inning or later, automatically winning game with no need to complete the inning**

 

Now it’s been ten days, and Michael is going to patch up whatever strange or possibly wholly in-his-head rift is between Luke and the rest of the team.

After they win, after Michael has not just broke .270 but is chasing down .280, after Luke has earned his second win with the team, Mike corrals the pitcher, squeezes in behind him as they board the bus to the airport. The road trip is over, another homestand starts tomorrow, and Michael is going to do this _now_.

“Good one tonight, Hemmings,” and yes, a professionally polite compliment as he crushes Hemmings against the window is an excellent way to start.

Luke’s eyes pass over Michael, he can feel them but is too busy fiddling with his dufflebag to look up, “Thank you. You had a good game as well.”

And it’s all very formal, though their bodies are crammed together in the small seats; all Michael can think is that it’s not supposed to be like this, so stiff. The close confines aren’t helping in the slightest, with his bag shoved between his legs and Luke’s hip digging into his own. He panics, reaches for a safe, hopefully provoking topic, “Ha-has Ashton got you on smoothies yet?”

It comes out so stilted, so desperate, that Luke cracks, white teeth beaming into the empty space above the seats in front of them, “Never, no.”

“Oh?” Intelligent.

“I had to promise to work out with him though, on every day off the whole team has.”

“Dude,” being so close to Luke’s eyes has him knotted up, reduced to a word at a time, so he tries again, “You’re an idiot.”

Somehow, Luke’s face doesn’t fall, or twist on itself, like he already knows Michael is teasing, despite the deadpan tone. He twirls a finger, silently urging Mike to explain.

“Ok, so now you have to work out with Ash. What you don’t know is that Ashton is going to talk to the team nutritionist—probably already has—about putting you on the smoothie diet, like the rest of us suckers,” he finally looks to Luke, finishing with a wild gesture to the rest of the busload of sleeping ballplayers.

The stricken look on Luke’s face says everything, and his slow turn forward before dramatically slumping and crashing his face in to the seatback in front of him has Michael erupting into peals of laughter, flaring obnoxiously through the easy quiet of the bus.

And like it was the first night in the locker room, after Ashton had left to check on Cal, it's easy again. There’s a only a short drive from the park to the airport, but as most of the team tries to drowse until they get to the jet, Michael and Luke are laughing about Ashton, about the game, about the hightlight reel of the worst plays of the week in ESPN last night. They drink an imaginary toast to Calum’s incredible catch during Luke’s last start and to Mikey’s new batting average, coo over photos of Castaway and Luke’s parents' dog—who he still insists is _his_ dog—and Michael loses track of how many times he excitedly shoves Luke against the window when the pitcher makes him groan with a stupid pun.

Disembarking the bus, hurrying through the airport, Luke and Michael are practically skipping; it’s eleven PM and they’re hopped up over the win, on adrenaline, on each other.

Michael trips over a woman’s suitcase when he feels it again, a settling feeling in his chest that radiates _home_.

Looking at Hemmings, who has caught up to Ashton and Calum and is in the process of semi-successfully clambering onto the former’s back, he realizes that maybe it’s not just the fans that keep him motivated, that push him to give himself to the team and the sport. Every player plays for his team, the men beside him on and off the field—every extra-innings game and no-hitter, every error and every homer. But saying it is so different than when you finally, truly feel it.

Michael has been in the Majors for almost a month and a half, has been playing his heart out on a nightly basis, but now he thinks that his life is actually perfect. He has his friends; it's still so early and yeah, any of them could be traded or injured any day, but they’re together now, and that’s worth every doubt for the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I know this one is quite short, so I'm sorry 'bout that. Fingers crossed that I get the direction for a new chapter that became necessary after I'd finished writing this thing :)


	10. Sacrifice Bunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wow, exposition! Amazing!

**Sacrifice Bunt—(n.) the batter will put the ball into play with the intention of advancing a baserunner, in exchange for the batter being thrown out; usually performed by weaker hitters, especially by pitchers in games played in National League parks**

 

Michael would likely claim that it’s just laziness when he decides to shower at the park after the game that evening, rather than heading home. What he really knows is that there’s two boxes on his bathroom counter at home, one bleach and one dye, and they’ve been yelling at him for the past week. Like before, he worries about the fans—while some still wear the firetruck-red wigs that cropped up during his first month with the team, others have gotten black ones that match the color he’d done before the road trip to Colorado. If he goes another color, they’ll be mad, right?

“Michael?” a voice and a hand on his shoulder bring him out of the mid-worry, post-game haze that has left him rooted in front of the showers.

“Right, hey Cal, sorry, ‘m I blocking you?”

“Little bit, but look, I can just push you out of the way and it’s all good.”

“Nice, I’ll take it. Just been a bit out of sorts I guess,” he smiles tiredly at Calum, who seems happy enough to talk to Michael, though now he’s the one that blocks the showers' entrance.

They chat about Michael’s late-inning RBI in the game, which Calum still thinks was called like shit, his voice climbing louder as he protests Michael’s safety at second to umpires that apparently only he can see. Another voice interrupts what Mike assumes is going to be a very kind, very unnecessary diatribe.

“So, personally, I’m not a huge fan of the replay review. I mean, obviously it helps make correct calls, but all these other rules are trying to shorten the game, the pitch clock for one, so why add something that lengthens it, immensely.”

Ashton doesn’t even stop to look at who he’s brushing by, too intent on lecturing a very visibly damp and be-toweled Luke on the dangers of changing the game too much. Luke, for his part, shoots Calum and Michael a small smile, and for once, Michael has no problem keeping his eyes trained up to Luke’s face.

“It’s just getting to be too much, you know,” and Michael can’t agree more, though for a slightly different reason, “It’s a game, our game, why do they have to…”

Calum turns back to Michael, “That was…different? Not very Ashton to not yell at us about vegan glove oil or som—”

“Hi guys! Sorry I didn’t catch ya there, see you tomorrow!” Ashton shouts from the other side of the locker room before continuing to natter to Luke, who is staring longingly at his locker some feet away.

“He, shit, he couldn’t have heard me, right?”

“Uh, no. Just coincidence. Just Ashton, really.”

“Yeah,” Calum’s face crinkles into an overbright smile, “just Ashton.”

It’s Michael’s turn to gently pat Cal on the shoulder before pushing him into the showers.

* * *

 

When they’ve finished up, the locker room still isn’t totally empty, but it’s vacant enough that Michael feels comfortable asking Calum about what to do about his hair, “…I bought blue, not like Dodger blue, but a sort of ‘dusty’ blue? Like it’s definitely blue, but not vibrant. I liked it a lot, but like, is it too soon?”

“Ok, I’m only going to tell you this once, and you can’t tell anyone, got it? I…I bleached my hair once,” he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath as Mike starts giggling, unable to picture the cautious and intense Calum Hood with bleached hair, “Just the top part, really, and it looked fine, so _shut up_ , but I did it because _I_ wanted to, and everyone was fine with it, and sure, I was just a college kid the scouts were looking at, not a major leaguer, but it’s whatever, you know?”

With a final wheeze, Michael begins to nod, “I know, I do know that. I just don’t want to make anyone mad.”

“Quirky players, remember? Like that old guy said to you; the fanbase loves that shit.”

“Shit?”

“You _know_ what I mean. I say do it, just fucking do it buddy.”

“Ok? Ok! Blue, here we go!”

“Ash’s gonna give you hell for it, just wait.”

“Oh whatever, natural dye sucks, barely works.”

“Not at all what I was talking about.”

“What? What, then?”

“If you don’t know, I’m not telling you.”

Because he has no idea what Cal is talking about, and he’s more than half sure Cal’s just saying it to rile him up, Michael doesn’t press, content that he’s made a decision.

“Will you need a ride home?”

“I’ll take the bus, that’s totally good,” Michael’s mouth twists so harshly, Calum starts laughing, “Really, I’ll be fine. It’s not like I’m walking home alone, like Ashton does. He’s so stupid, damn.”

“Uh-huh, he is. Alright Cal, be safe though, you know.”

“I am.”

“Good.”

They walk out to the parking lot together, and Calum starts laughing again when Michael squeals as Ashton bounds over from where he’d been waiting in the gloom, leaning against a palm tree.

“Ashton, you’ve been here this whole time?”

“Yeah, no big," Michael throws a dirty look Calum's way, "Just wanted to say good night. To both of you.”

“Thanks Ash!” When they’re not running after the other, Michael thinks they’re always beaming at each other, “You want to take the bus with me? I can get on your bus route, get over to my place eventually?”

“No, we’ll just take yours, Cal. I can jog home after your stop. Is that ok?”

Michael chimes in, rolling his eyes, “Or I can just fucking drop you both off, yeah? Like how friends do?”

“Nah Mikey, we’ll see you tomorrow,” something gentle flits quickly across Calum’s face as Ashton speaks.

For the first time, something tickles in the back of Michael’s mind, “’K guys…tomorrow it is.”

“Night,” they chorus, and begin walking down the brightly-lit sidewalk. When Michael pulls out of the lot, he can see them standing together at the bus stop, talking to a few people he takes to be fans.

Shrugging off the little niggle, Mike drives home, resolves to get more RBIs in tomorrow’s game—Luke’s pitching, so hopefully they won’t need that many runs—and dye his hair afterwards.


	11. Seventh-Inning Stretch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four dumb boys hang out; happen to be professional athletes. Cheetos.

**Seventh-Inning Stretch** **—(n.) a tradition that takes place between the halves of the seventh inning of a game – in the middle of the seventh inning. Traditionally, “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” is played over for a crowd sing-along**

 

In a few blinks, it’s mid-September, and the team is in a race for the post-season with their biggest rivals. They’re only two games up in the standings, but soon to be just one and a half. Against all common sense, Michael, Calum, and Luke are sprawled on Ashton’s couch—Ashton himself is balanced on an exercise ball off to their left—watching their division rivals mop the floor with a hapless Detroit team. The Tigers looked strong in first innings, but their bullpen is in shambles and, as Calum loudly points out, they don’t have a devastatingly talented hitter to “ _literally_ , guys, literally” swing the game their way. They have already finished with their morning game, a tough loss at an ill time, so watching the enemy win is a further damper on their spirits. They do it anyway, partly ‘cause Luke insists it will motivate them, but mostly it’s because Ashton has miraculously been injury-free for almost a month, and the other three are anxiously waiting around him for the other shoe to drop, wanting to see one of the mysterious Ashton Irwin-injuries for themselves.

The team has a day off tomorrow, the last one before the season ends and the postseason starts, hopefully with them in it.

And later that evening, “Ok, ok, you ready Mikey?”

He takes a deep breath, braces, nods.

“Ready, set, go!”

Cheetos rain down around him, hitting his shoulders, forehead, nose, until he finally catches one in his mouth, “Um, this is flamin’ hot?”

“That’s me!” Calum cheers, and dumps the rest of his bag over Ashton’s head.

“Are you kidding Cal!? Now I have to vacuum!”

“Wait, you weren’t going to vacuum anyway? We’ve been here hours—there’s certainly more than just Cheeto crumbs on your floor.”

“Yeah Clifford, but now I have to borrow a vacuum a lot sooner than I wanted.”

Michael leaps from his place on the couch next to Luke, where they’d collapsed laughing at a still-celebrating Calum. “You don’t _own_ a _vacuum_?? When’s the last time you cleaned this place?” he shrieks.

“Um, I don’t—maybe April?”

Michael narrows his eyes. Calum and Luke have retreated to the other side of the room, wordlessly sharing Luke’s bag of extra cheesy Cheetos as they watch Michael’s neat freak tendencies eviscerate Ashton’s nonchalance, “So, you’re telling me it’s been five _months_ since you cleaned your apartment. Five.”

“Uh, give or take, that’s correct.”

“I see,” he tackles Ashton, ignoring Cal’s giggly shouts about “twenty-four days since our last incident!” and flops on to the smaller reliever, “You’re probably the cleanest thing in here, by a long shot, so this is where I’ll be while visiting your place from now on.”

“Hey, hey, I’m healthy now, you really wanna put my streak in danger, give me a bruised lung?”

“Shut up Irwin, you’re not getting out of this that easily. Some things are worth standing for. You let me, you let Calum, you let poor Luke—"

"Wait, what?"

"—hang out in this pig sty. You can deal.”

Ashton wriggles a bit before resigning himself to his fate. Cal and Luke come back around, and over, the couch and settle near them; Luke offers the bag to Michael, who shoves a handful into his mouth before sticking one near Ashton’s face, a peace offering from victor to loser.

“Thrrrr vmmbluhs nnnna conrrrr.”

“Um, what?”

Ash gingerly lifts his head from the carpet, “There are vegetable straws on the counter.”

Mike grabs the bag out of Luke’s hands.

“Um, Ash…” ventures Calum, ever concerned about his curly-headed friend, “Maybe you should eat the Cheeto.”

“No, no I won’t! I let you have those in my _home_ , but the buck stops here!” he begins squirming around again, trying to avoid the offensive snack near his face.

“Ok Irwin, sorry, but it had to be done,” Michael empties the bag onto Ash, the second of the night. He jumps off of him immediately, rushing to curl up on the couch behind Luke, suddenly worried that he's pushed too much.

And Ashton’s laughing, somehow, loud and shrill into the carpet, his shoulders shaking. They’re a little thrown.

“We-we lost today, and the damn Dodgers won, and the worst part of the day was still that I ended up covered in fake cheese powder,” he giggles out.

They goggle at him, until Calum breaks too, with his near-silent chuckles that just spur Ashton to laugh harder.

Michael’s still nervous that he took it too far, that he _always_ takes it too far, still wound up and just as shocked by his actions as he is disgusted by Ash’s. Luke is struck too, leaning back against Mikey, unsure sometimes whether he can laugh with the boys.

They do crack though, after Ashton, still wheezing and distractedly freeing his hair from its usual bun, walks into his kitchen to retrieve the veggie straws. Chuckling, they all take some, moving to allow Ash to leap onto the couch. Mike pats the back of his head, and Ash pokes his cheek, so it’s ok again. They’re all grinning now, in spite of the game wrapping up in the TV in front of them; the poor Tigers down six runs with one out left.

The game ends, and they only own the division by a game and a half. Tonight, it somehow feels like they lead by twenty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is just a very short bit of cute stuff, yes, but ~things~ are going to start happening soon!


	12. Error

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who knows anymore...Michael has a day, Calum drops the ball.

**Error—(n.) an act, in the judgment of the official scorer, of a fielder misplaying a ball in a manner that allows a batter or baserunner to advance one or more bases**

 

The next day, during their day off, Mike wakes up extra early. He’s sweaty and shaken up, and, as usual, tangled in his sheets, breathing heaving with the tendrils of some forgotten nightmare slowly winding back into the deeper corners of his mind. After getting up and moving around, he feels considerably better, alive, and skips Ashton’s smoothie in favor of the hugest omelet he can make, fitting five eggs into his small pan.

Sitting down with his omelet and a bottle of water, he disinterestedly scrolls through his phone for a few minutes before texting Luke.

**_—_ Hey man, are you going to be at the park today?**

He might as well feed the cat while he waits for Luke to reply, and Castaway seems grateful that he’s decided to indulge her with extra food as well, right until he turns to leave the room, when she abandons her bowl and sits in his chair at the table instead, peeking eagerly over the table at his omelet.

“That’s very smart, sweetheart, but that’s definitely not yours,” Michael strokes the top of her head and scratches behind her ears before picking her up and depositing her safely on the other side of the room from his breakfast.

_—There right now. Woke up early n asked Ash if he wanted to meet earlier_

**_—_ GOtcha.**

**_—_ That should be a little o**

_—You’re sure?_

**_—_ Shut up, Luke**

_—Do you want to get food later?_

**_—_ Dinner food, yes. Not lunch I’m going to drink my smoothie post-workout.**

_—Yikes I won’t tell ash_

_—Oh he says hi, also_

**_—_ HI ASH**

_—What do you think, like video games and leftovers, or should we go for actual food?_

**_—_ What about freshii**

_—OH YES I accept that idea_

**_—_ :)**

_— :-)_

After cleaning up from his breakfast—which involves letting Castaway lick some sour cream and cheese from his finger, “got me wrapped around your finger, don’t you, you little brat,” and tweeting about his “very exciting” off-day plans—Michael gets dressed and drives to the park. Luke and Ashton are long gone, but he’s not too surprised to see Luke’s car still in the parking lot, as he’s often convinced by Ashton to “just jog home with me, I’ll buy you a juice.” Michael grins to himself; even though Luke could buy all the juice in any store, he’ll never pass up free stuff, presents.

Michael accidentally catches Calum in the weight room, right at the beginning of his workout, so Mike is unwillingly roped into working out with him. Not that it’s a major problem, but he, both of them, get too competitive—who can run the fastest, farthest; who can lift the most, can do the most reps…he’s in shape, has to be, but Calum is literally _built_ to beat him. Campos is there as well, and a few pitchers, both starters and relievers. The shortstop keeps waving gleefully at him from a treadmill; Michael’s ready to drop at any second but the Venezuelan’s easy encouragement  has him pushing, not quite catching Cal, but certainly keeping up.

They finish with some squats with a medicine ball, gently tossing it to each other before, finally, Cal throws it aside and flops to the mat, pulling Michael down with him. His shoes are near Calum’s head—he weakly kicks out for the outfielder’s shoulder.

“Way to thank a guy, Clifford.”

“Never, never a thank you. No.”

Something unexpectedly lands on his stomach, he coughs out a startled gasp.

“Gatorade. I thought you might like the purple one, so that’s what I grabbed this morning.”

Michael is at first thrown—he’s so close to Calum, feels like he’s known him forever, so it’s strange to think that they’ve only known each other a few months, and therefore Calum would question as to which flavor Gatorade he likes. Then he realizes, “Wait, you _brought_ this? Intentionally? You planned—you were going to shove me into this all along!”

“Buddy! Of course! Ash and Luke _always_ get to work out together on days off—why not us too?”

Michael exaggerates his sigh, but not much, “Caaaaaal, you are the sweetest little outfielder in the world, but killing me doesn’t exactly endear me to you. Just ask Ash if you can join.”

“Can’t. I’m sure it’s top-secret pitcher stuff,” he pouts.

“Dork. I’m sure a few curls and rounds on the exercise bike are suuuuuper secret.”

“Shut up.”

“You shut up.”

“You shut up.”

“I love you Cal, but shut up. Ash loves you more than anything anyway, he’d have no problem sweating it off with you.”

Calum sits up suddenly, and despite the sweat on his brow and the flush across his arms and what Michael can see of his chest, he’s gone pale. He twitches out a brusque “I’ll catch you later, Mikey,” and jumps up, racing out of the workout room. He’s left his Gatorade behind though, and Michael stares at the bottle; it takes him a few seconds to realize what exactly he’s said.

* * *

 

During the game the next day, the first of a three-game series against the Dodgers, who are eagerly chasing down their lead in the standings, Ashton pitches in the last of the eighth. He gets two quick outs with his slider:  one a strike swinging, the other a more-common-for-him dribbling grounder that Michael easily scoops up and throws to first for the out.

It’s the third batter, a hulking lefthander named Pinot, who makes the first solid contact of the inning, but the ball flies straight to Calum, waiting in right field. He catches it handily. With no preamble, just as the crowd swells again, he drops the ball. It just rolls out of his glove, drops to the grass, and Cal stares for a second, gaping across the field, rather than at the ball at his feet.

If Michael had to testify on it, he’d say Calum was looking to the pitcher’s mound when he makes the error.

Cal drops his glove back down, snatches the ball, throws to first. The runner is limited to a single—he was going slowly; like everyone else, he expected the easy catch, an out, and the end of their ups.

Ash doesn’t seem shook up, getting the next batter to ground out to shortstop, but he’s muttering to himself as they descend into the dugout, and he sits alone with a paper cup of water as the next, final, inning starts.

For the first time in a while, Michael’s nervous again.


	13. Curveball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashton and Michael talk; a decision is made.

**Curveball** **—(n.) a type of pitch in baseball thrown with a characteristic grip and hand movement that imparts forward spin to the ball, causing it to dive in a downward path as it approaches the plate**

 

“Hey Ash, you want a ride home?”

It’s after the last game of that three-game series against the Dodgers, and though they’ve won tonight, they’re now down half a game in the standings, after their rivals took games one and two. Once the other team takes their last day off next week, there will be no more half-games, there are no more breaks, and the race really kicks up.

Ashton pitched again tonight, magnificent as usual in the eighth inning, but he’s been down, subdued, an obvious change from his usual giggly and extroverted self. Michael usually doesn’t ask, but Ash looks like he could use the lift—and the company.

“Oh…yeah, sure. I guess I don’t really feel like walking tonight.”

Michael has always worried about Ashton—Calum too, though he often takes public transportation at night—walking home alone after games. They usually don’t finish up until after ten, even eleven on a long night, and Mike thinks it’s dumb of them not to at least take a damn Uber. As professional athletes, he’s learned that a sort of celebrity status comes with the title, and fans can get a little...overzealous, sometimes. But tonight, thankfully, Ash climbs into his car, throws his bag into the backseat, and starts fiddling with the seat adjuster, attempting to scoot it closer to the dash.

“Jesus, who was the last person in here; you’ve been hanging out with a giant?”

"Not far off. Hemmings rode back with me from the airport the last time we got home from the road.”

“Oh. Great leggy bastard.”

“Yeah,” Michael grins at the lack of heat in Ashton’s words, and the memory of Luke complaining that he could never fit in Michael's car after Ashton or Cal had been in the front seat.

“How is that? I mean, I know it’s been months, and we’re with Luke always, but we’ve never talked about your nerves, from before. You were just trying to figure out, put the team to rights—when it was fine already, I might add—and suddenly he was around, with us, you, always. That’s ok, right?”

“First, rude. And yeah, I don’t know. It’s like with you and Cal, he feels _right_.” Michael’s not ready to talk about the light inside him when he’s around his favorite teammates. Teammate. Someday he will.

“He does.” When Ash doesn’t elaborate, Michael looks over at him; the streetlights flash slowly by, illuminating a stray baseball Ashton is clutching, like he’s anchoring himself to something solid.

“You’re gonna be ok, right Ash? It—it’s not something bad?”

Ashton doesn’t ask how he knows, just loosens his grip on the ball and begins to toss it back and forth between his hands, “It’s all good, really. Calum, um, he’s a good kid, and a good player. Like you, you know? Like Luke. But…he’s not, not like you and Luke. Um. Ah. Not like anyone.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah,” Ashton pauses for a long moment, “He made that error the other day, yeah, and he was _looking_ at me…like, I’m not sure, like it was my fault? But that can’t be it…”

“I told him the other day, well it was sort of when we were joking around, I told him you loved him…” and as he’s speaking, Michael’s not sure whether he completely regrets giving Ashton a ride or is thankful the worry he’s been feeling might finally be resolved.

“Ok. Uh, why?”

“I don’t—”

“I mean, it’s fine! That’s kinda true I guess, and we’re so close, I love you boys and the team and I love a lot of things but hearing you say…that. I do, like I _do_?! He’s…what did Cal say?”

“Ash, you’re teammates. And Cal’s a rookie, _and_ he still thinks he’s supposed to be in the American League even though he wants to be playing on the field too, and he’s on the short-list for Rookie of the Year—”

“What did he say.”

“He, well, he kind of ran away. But I don’t think, no, I know it didn’t mean what you’re thinking!”

They had pulled up to Ashton’s building several minutes ago, and Michael is freaking out, clutching his bleached hair with one hand and Ashton’s forearm with the other. With a determined and inscrutable look on his face, Ash doesn’t look like he’s going anywhere.

“Can you take me to Cal’s?”

“You know, of course, I suppose, but it’s nearly eleven PM?”

“Yeah, take me to Calum.”

Ever the worrier, Michael stirs himself up more than Ashton seems to be, nearly running two red lights before they’re halfway there. Ash’s baseball has disappeared into the pocket of his hoodie, his fingers tapping something on his phone.

“That Calum?”

“No. Google. Also Luke, who says go for it,” Michael hears the pointed tone to his voice, but can’t quite place the interested stir in his mid-section upon hearing that Luke supports this. Then, “I’m googling how to tell your best friend you love them.”

And Michael _does_ run a red light then, Ash’s casual tone fucking him up more than anything else. He’s absolutely dumbstruck, but unbeknownst to him, there’s a smile on his face that matches Ashton’s quiet giggles.

As they pull up to Cal’s building, “Ok, I guess, this is it then.”

“This isn’t a mistake, Michael, it’s not. I’m your teammate, a professional, and I have obligations, but I’m a person too. I’ve got one life. I don’t wanna waste it.”

“Should I wait for you?”

“Nah. This is going to—it’s right,” and looking at Ashton’s face, the light in his eyes, Michael could believe anything, “and hey, if I’m injured tomorrow, got a few bruises, at least it won’t be a mystery this time!”

They laugh, loud and short and nervous, and Ashton gets out, grabbing his backpack. He tosses Michael the ball from his pocket though, “for thinking,” and straightens up, marching into Calum’s building.

As he drives away, Mike belatedly remembers that Luke lives at that complex as well—realizes Ash will head there if there _is_ an issue. He wonders if he should head back, so, one way or another, they’ll all sleep under the same roof. He keeps driving, one-handed, the baseball now clenched in his own fist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


	14. Hitting for the Cycle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Resolution, of one party

**Hitting for the Cycle—(v.) the accomplishment of one batter hitting a single, a double, a triple, and a home run in the same game.**

 

Oddly, enough, Michael gets up late the next morning. Yes, his alarm went off, and yes, Castaway had been meowing at him for what seemed like hours, but he just couldn’t get out of bed. He can always shower once he gets to the park, rather than at home, and he’ll just hustle through his morning rather than relaxing into it.

Throwing off the covers, the double detour of last night floods back to him—first to Ashton’s building and then to Calum’s. Luke’s. He has no texts, apart from an alert from T-Mobile, so he’s definitely concerned. It’s not easy to shake off his concern for his teammates, but finally rolling out of bed, pulling on a pair of cheery orange sweats, moving around, helps a little.

He’s bleary still, and lost; the morning passes slowly despite his late start.

It’s absolutely ridiculous, he thinks, that there would be anything stopping Ash and Calum getting together. Sure, it’s a little out of the blue, but only because it seems like such a far-off proposition, not something to happen _now_. A good thing, a right thing, an eventual thing, but almost incomprehensible, because, well, baseball.

The game, the one love they all have in common, overshadows a lot of things, but whatever there was between Calum and Ashton wasn’t so invisible as Cal seemed to think the other day in the gym—the joking and shoving and linked arms were something all four of them shared, but the care Calum and Ashton place in each other, the quiet acceptance of each other’s flaws and slip-ups…like Ashton had said, it’s different.

And who cares, really, if it is? Michael is a little frustrated with himself, with his occasionally overbearing anxiety for the comfort and unity of his team and his friends. Something in him would rather stay stuck and easy than make the right move. With a loud huff that scares Castaway from her bowl in the kitchen, he pulls out his phone to text an apology to Ash for trying to dissuade him, passive and ineffective as he was.

He’s grateful to have known Ashton for long enough to know the reliever is shit at texting back. He wishes he could text Cal too. Calum is still his closest friend on the team and _god_ Michael wants to know if he’s happy. They’d been fine after Calum ran out of the gym, thank goodness, but it was easy to see the gears clicking behind his dark eyes, and the appearance of that very college-esque error a few days ago pointed in the same direction as Ashton’s radiating nervousness on the mound.

Once he makes it to the park, it’s pretty clear what’s happened.

Ashton was right about taking a bruising—he’s sporting a bruise under his left eye that rivals a plum—but he was also right about it being ok. He and Calum are dressed in their usual jogging gear—both in team shorts, a cut-off cropped shirt on Cal, a tank top for Ash—and they’ve obviously reached the park some minutes ago and have been waiting for him in the parking lot. They look steady, not out of breath in the slightest. They’re holding hands.

Getting out of his car, Michael squints and curses himself for forgetting sunglasses, then holds out his bag to swap with Calum.

The outfielder smiles blindingly at Mikey, “Nah, think I found something even luckier.”

At the wink that follows, Michael blanches, “that’s fucking disgusting, Hood. Please, Irwin, reign him in.”

Seriously, Ashton turns to Cal, taking his free hand so they’re linked before Michael, who suddenly feels very like a priest at a wedding, “Now Calum, be kind to Mikey, he’s very sensitive to change.”

He hits both of them with his duffle bag before taking Ashton’s arm and pulling him away and into the stadium.

“He really _did_ hit you?”

“Oh, right. I used his spare key but he thought I was someone breaking in. I guess I sort of was,” he looks back to Calum and raises his voice, “I stole his heart!”

Michael and Calum’s harmonized groans echo down the corridor.

“Then he hit me again when I told him, but I think it was, again, like a surprise thing? You can tell, see my jaw here,” Michael peers at the fainter bruise, reaching out to poke it, “Ow!”

“Clifford, The abuse stops here! That’s my…person…” Calum trails off quietly.

Ashton slows from Michael’s side, taking Cal’s hand again, “’M not gonna let you get scared away Calum. You’re my person too, jokes aside.”

As they fall behind and Michael carries on to the locker room, the smile that he finds on his face spurs an eagerness to get on the field, to get where he belongs. He showers quickly, nodding to Luke who follows him in there. By now, he knows the pitcher doesn’t like being talked to before he starts a game, but he needs _some_ sort of acknowledgement. Most of the bullpen is in the showers as well, and Michael wonders—not for the first time—why there are communal showers in the clubhouse. It’s awkward, and a little much sometimes, which is why he’s quick.

* * *

 Ash is at his own locker by the time Michael finishes; he’s dressed and smiling and “the bruise isn’t in the way of my vision, so I can pitch if necessary—the streak lives on!”

Finally, they all take the field for batting practice; Michael leaves last as usual. He’s really, indescribably happy for his friends, and he knows there won’t be a problem with whatever their relationship is with the front office—it pays off to play in one of the most liberal and lgbtq-friendly cities in the country. He’s optimistic for the future of their team. The bigoted opinions shared by fans and players of major league sports has gone by the wayside, but this is still a big step for some, something good and strong for people to look up to.

He feels that way as well, like he’s looking at hope itself, and for the first time in a long time, Michael thinks about his future, outside of baseball, beyond his career.


	15. Shutout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trouble in the coffee shop; Calum takes his pants off

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very tired so this one is (extra) unedited, but it's longer than the last few, YEAH

**Shutout—(n.) a single pitcher pitches a complete game and does not allow the opposing team to score a run**

 

There have been a few problems. As it turns out, the amount of time Calum and Ashton spent together as _friends_ did not translate well into a healthy and sustainable relationship. It's not their fault—wasn’t anyone’s fault—but it's clear to Michael that they can’t see what the heart of their problems is. It's like they feel pushed to be around each other always, pushed to pick each other always. When the team flies between states on road trips, they automatically sit next to each other. They were…discouraged from rooming together by the coaching staff, “in the interests of preserving their ability on the field,” but did anyway. They still run together, they work out together, they eat together; everything, always, together.

Michael misses Calum. Luke is great, home or something, but he loses Luke to the pitcher’s mound every five days and for a half day between starts that he throws to keep his movement sharp. It's was a lot of out-of-bounds time for Michael, but it goes deeper than that. Calum just _gets_ him, they're able to just be young rookies together, they have such similar ambitions and anxieties, they express their passions the same—brothers by contract and by choice.

Things come to a head after their last Saturday game, six days before the end of the season. It was a day game, and with that win, they are back to up two games over their southern rivals.

Mike had asked Luke if he wanted to come with him to the coffee shop—their coffee shop, a small, stunted voice in the back of his head insisted—to hang a while after the game, to rewind, unwind. The pitcher begs off, “Think my legs have turned to noodles, Mikey.”

“You didn’t even pitch today Luke, what the hell?”

“Yeah, but I don’t wanna go.”

Michael pushseshim into the wall. Not too hard, though Luke’s yelp says otherwise, because he recognizes that Luke _had_ pitched his warmup the day before, and that maybe violence isn’t the best way to endear himself to Luke’s afternoon plans.

“Come over later though, ok? You can bring me an iced coffee.”

“I’d kill you, Hemmings, if it didn’t mean we’d likely lose the division…and I’d be on my own with the power couple.”

“Hey, you think I’m talented?! I’m amazing aren't I, tell me you think I’m amazing!”

“Shut up, Luke.”

Luke pouts for a second before moving on to the second part of what Michael had said, “Anyway, they’re not that bad; every relationship has an adjustment period.”

“Like you’d you know,” Michael retorts, throwing his bag in the back seat of his Hyundai.

“Just come over later, ‘k?”

“Yeah Hemmings, you know it.”

They both climb into their respective vehicles, Michael never failing to notice how nice Luke’s Audi would look if he just cleaned the damn thing. How does he even get it that dirty anyway?

Since he's going solo, Michael decides to stop by his apartment first, to shower and feed Castaway. He wishes, not for the first time, that he could take her with him to Luke’s, but that was “off-limits” according to Ashton, who insists it's a “shared space” and he was allergic. Mike thinks that's just an excuse to hate on cats, but he acquiesces.

After a quick shower and a long game of Chase the Mouse, Not My Hand, Michael heads out again, not really wanting to drive but taking his car anyway, in case he heads home late.

Standing in line to order, he's a little surprised by the noise in the café. They’ll be closing for the day soon, but he hears the chatter of voices over the relatively reliable sanctuary of his headphones. Looking around, he corrects himself. The café _was_ nearly empty, and the chatter was shouting—that sort of whisper-shouting that only arguing couples use in public. And, unfortunately, he knows this arguing couple.

Adding two teas to his order, he gingerly makes his way to Ashton and Calum.

When Ashton pauses for breath, Michael speaks up, “Mind if I join you guys?”

Both of them immediately slap on smiles, shiny fake grins that hurt Michael’s heart more than he wants to admit.

“Yeah Mike, ‘course.”

“I ordered some iced tea for you both,” he drops into a cushionless wooden chair on the far side of the table they sit at, “but if that’s a no go for you, no big. I’m pretty parched.”

“That’s great!” they chime, and Michael sees their real smiles flash out before they glance at each other and jerk away.

Michael cringes, and he's not sure where his next words come from, “Good. Now, trust me, this is worse for me than you, but _what_ is _up_? Not for the team’s sake, but for yours? Jesus, this is nonsensical! The other day you fought over socks, socks! And it’s not even been two weeks! At the very least, you could use that competitive streak in your bones to pull your relationship together!”

The barista softly sets down their teas, and Michael’s vision clears enough to bring his best friends’ faces into focus—stunned, but still stubborn.

Michael realizes he may have (definitely has) overstepped his bounds, he certainly didn’t mean to blow up like that, but as both his eyes and mouth widen, Ashton starts talking.

“I mean, I don’t _know_ what’s wrong,” he glances gently at Calum, who has sucked down half his iced tea and is resolutely staring out the window, though the drum of his finders betrays his nerves, and that he's listening. “Nothing is that different, I don’t understand!” a petulant note creeps into the reliever's voice.

“It’s because you’re always around! Why, why Ash, I love you, but you. Are. A lot," the casual, albeit irritated, way Calum has thrown out “love” nearly makes Michael choke on his straw, but he manages to stay quiet.

“I’m…oh, oh Calum, ok,” Ashton crowds back into the outfielder’s space, “I thought we, you and me, we were ruining everyone else’s days, having each other and having out dreams in our grasp, I just…it feels like I can only share that with _you_.”

As they're leaning in, Michael politely looks away, before yelping as someone’s spilled iced tea rushes into his lap, “Guys!” As they break apart, there are, finally, real and bright and glowing smiles on their faces, “You know, I actually wanted to work out with you the other day, Cal. Missed you laughing at me.”

“Yeah, Mikey? I think I could get behind that.”

“Poor word choice, babe.”

“Ew. But seriously, stop spending so much time together. Calum _and_ Ashton are my friends, not this…'Cashton'.”

“You got it,” Ashton beams, wrapping one arm around Calum and his hand over Michael’s wrist, “No more sequencing.”

“Um. Sequestering?”

“Fuck, that too.”

“You know you can share stuff with us—uh, me and Luke. You can.”

“Logically, yes. Sorry bro.”

“Better be. To make it up to me, I’ll take your pants.”

Calum whipped his head back to Michael, “You _what_ , Clifford?”

“Easy there, hotshot; I do believe that’s Ashton’s spilled iced tea, yeah? I’m not going to Luke’s place soaked like this.”

“Oh to Luuuu—“

“Shut up Calum," Ash cuts him off quietly, "Anyway, you’re the one that knocked the tea over anyway; give him your sweats.”

And because Calum really has no shame, he strips them off right there, giggling as he hands them to Mike, who ruefully apologizes to the staff as he walks to the café’s small restroom.

After a quick change, something not unfamiliar to the oft-sweaty third baseman, he makes his way back to Calum and Ashton, stopping to ask for an iced coffee to-go, no room, for Luke. He despairs for Luke’s gleaming teeth and is insanely glad Ashton has pushed the team into “group brushing” before games, though likely even that couldn’t stave off the eventual discoloration Luke’s coffee intake is sure to cause.

They're a little close for comfort, but all hands are visible as Cal and Ashton stand to join him.

“You’ll give us a ride, right Mikey? You’ll have to make two stops, but that’s alright, hey?”

“Sure Cal, no big. Anything to prevent WWIII,” he grins.

“Always so mean. You’re lucky you’re good, Clifford.”

“’S not luck, buddy.”

They walk together to Michael’s car, obliviously taking up the whole sidewalk.

“Where to first? Yours, Ash?”

“Sure! And Cal’ll go to the park, seems like he’s been neglecting the weightroom since we started—”

“Stop, stop! I don’t need to hear about that! What the fuck, dude?!”

“Um, overreaction. Since I swapped my workouts for Ashton’s and…” Calum is still talking, but Ash’s loud giggles draw Michael’s attention to the rearview mirror, where Ashton’s eyebrows wiggle pointedly at him. He chooses to take the high road and ignore him.

After Ashton jumps out and they're back on the road, Michael asks Calum how he is.

“Honestly, stressed. A lot. And happier than I’ve ever been.”

“Seriously though.”

“Seriously. You should try it.”

“What, a boyfriend?”

“Or girlfriend. Pick your poison, I guess? We haven’t talked about it…”

Michael glosses over that last part, “OK, I’ll get right on it, pick up any ol’ person off the street.”

“Um, if that’s what you’re into, I had something else in mind, you kn—”

“Whoops, guess we’re here! Bye Calum!”

“Smooth,” they're still half a block from the players' entrance.

“That’s all I am Cal-Pal, all I am.”

He speeds all the way to Luke’s.


	16. Set-Up Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second to last!

**Setup Man—(n.) a relief pitcher who regularly pitches before the closer. They commonly pitch the eighth inning, with the closer pitching the ninth, final, inning**

 

Luke’s iced coffee is more than a little watery by the time his arrives at the pitcher’s door, banging loudly on the flimsy hollowcore.

“You and Calum both should really find another building,” he begins, stepping past a grinning and grabby Luke, “Anyone could break through these crappy doors, not to mention that weird smell—almost as bad as Ashton’s apartment.”

Finally seizing the drink from Michael’s wildly brandishing hand, Luke pours it into a new glass and tops it up with fresh ice.

“I mean it Hemmings, you’re going to actually die, and to everyone’s shock, it won’t be at the hands of a pissed off batter you froze with that curve, it’ll be some stupid _burgler_.”

They sit together on Luke’s couch and automatically pick up his game controllers; Mike continues badgering Luke, who remains silent, happily sucking down his coffee. Michael has a wild thought that he’d done _a lot_ of talking today, that he hasn’t talked this much since he’d taken a fucking public speaking course back in college.

“…so really, just move, dammit. No one likes a pitcher with a literal extra hole in his head.”

“You’re done?”

“Yes.”

“Cool. Thanks for the coffee. Maybe I should move into your building. What’d you say to Ash and Calum?”

“You’re welcome, in your dreams you could get in, and just that they were being dumb and clingy.”

“No you did not, you were probably so nice, so gentle.”

“Stop,” he shoves Luke against the armrest, causing his car to spin off the track, much to Michael’s glee.

Luke huffs, “You stop.”

“How’d you know, anyway, that something happened with them and me?”

“Ashton sent me a snap—he likes to send updates, you know? He just sent one about watching some tacky adventure flick. That’s not really Calum’s speed, and I kinda thought they’d have hard time breaking out of their funk on their own…Also, you have your location turned on—you were at Ash’s a bit ago.”

“Just dropping him off. You are seriously a stalker, Hemmings.”

“Yeah, it’s great. Rematch, no shoving?”

“I can’t promise that—you’re just very shovable, it’s awesome.”

“You know,” Luke leans comfortably against Michael, despite the threats, “don’t be too surprised if there’s a ball flying at your head during my next start.”

“Don’t be surprised if there’s not something flying at _you_ during your next start,” Michael grumbles as Luke shoots past his car, “Quit leaning on my arm.”

They settle in for the evening. Later, Luke mixed a salad as Michael heats up some chicken he found sealed in a Tupperware in Luke’s fridge. When they sit back down on the couch, Michael resignedly picks the pear out of his salad and deposits them on Luke’s plate.

When they’ve finished, Luke picks his controller back up, “Another, before you go home?”

“Sure…’s crazy that we only have a few games left. Six.”

“I know! Probably stranger for you, being a rook and all.”

“Yeah, but I had my year in the minors…still wild though, especially knowing I’m confirmed, that I even _get_ to come back next year”

“Hey, don’t get cocky, kid.”

Michael raises an eyebrow at him, “Sick Star Wars reference, bro.”

“Shut up, Calum.”

“Oh, Ashton, bro, that’s so hurtful!” Michael drops his controller and leaps onto Luke, who convincingly fakes a struggle before unceremoniously rolling Michael off him and onto the floor.

“Ok, ok ow, and ow, my pride. Guess I’ll head home, at least there I always beat Castaway.”

“Aww, say hello to her for me, ‘kay? I’m not one for cats, but she is seriously adorable. I’d definitely fight you for her. A real keeper.”

“Will do. You know, if you did manage to get a apartment in my complex, you could visit her more.”

“I guess that’s one plus. I’d be closer to you though so…” Luke mimes a set of scales and smirks at Michael.

“This has just been a day of insults, I guess!”

As Michael goes out the door, Luke calls out, “See you at the park, Mikey!”

“Yeah,” the door shuts, “See you at the park, Luke.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out I left my handwritten copy of the final chapter at home after I moved, so probably won't be able to get it up until this next weekend :( :(


	17. Grand Slam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THE END?!??
> 
> There's A Lot of baseball jargon in this chapter, and I'm sorry about that, but as this one takes places during a game, it's hard to avoid. Not to worry though, you'lll get the gist of it and

**Grand Slam—(n.) a home run hit with all three bases occupied by baserunners ("bases loaded"), thereby scoring four runs—the most possible in one play**

On their second-to-last game, they have a chance to clinch the lead in their Division, guaranteeing them a place in postseason play, making the final game of the season irrelevant. Luke is pitching tonight, and he’s let Michael and Ashton bracket him as they sit on the dugout bench. Calum is pacing, and drinking too much Gatorade.

Michael is twenty-two years old, and he’s about to be a contender in the Major League Baseball postseason. But first they have to get through this game. They’re playing their rivals for this final series, and if that wasn’t poetic enough, the oddsmakers have the other team winning tonight, and tomorrow, to take the title right from underneath them. His team is a game ahead, yet people _still_ doubt their ability to win. It’s only been a few months, but he feels as fiercely loyal to this team as any veteran, and he knows there’s no losing now.

And there are a myriad of reasons he wants to win tonight, too many to count, and yet they all whirl through his head in flashes as he unseeingly watches the field where the Dodgers warm up. He thinks about his mom and her unwavering faith in him after he’d made it clear that, yes, this was what he wanted, after he promised her he could do it. He thought about all the people that stood behind and beside him through the years; he was playing for them too. He wanted to win for his team, his brothers. He wanted, more than anything, to win for himself, for the person he’d been in the minor leagues, to prove that all the easy hate and loneliness had been worth it.

But amidst all that, the memory of a baseball, gently rolling out from under his passenger seat, kept floating to the front of him mind. He’d seen it this morning as he pulled up to the park, brought it with him. Somehow he knew it was the same one Ash had tossed him the night he and Calum had gotten together.

The ball was next to his batting gloves, in his helmet, over in a cubby on the near side of the dugout. Michael kept glancing at it. “For thinking,” Ashton had said. He was thinking.

Ashton pulled them up, first Luke, then Michael, as the starters for the other team were announced. As the scattered boos faded away, the speaker system boomed again, “And now, the starting lineup for the Saaaaan Francisco Giiiants! Your starting pitcher, Luke Hemmings!”

For a few seconds, Michael thought the stadium had exploded. Not for the first time, he thinks “this is what it means to be in the big leagues.” Luke has been on the team only a few months, but after redeeming himself form that sub-par first start, the fans grew to love him. They’d never faced him on the field, have simply seen his results and the charming grin he shoots to any camera in the vicinity. Those shining eyes vanish when he’s on the field; Michael knows they’re gone now, as Luke lines up along the third baseline and takes off his hat for the national anthem. Michael almost misses his own announcement, thinking about steel and ice and the baseball he leaves in his cubby.

After the anthem, he rushes to third base, scratches his “X” into the dirt to the right of the bag, and tosses a ball around with the other infielders, waiting for the first pitch.

* * *

In the sixth, they fall into some trouble. The other team has scored once, after a single and a rare triple. The player who knocked in the run is standing on third, a breadth from Michael, who knows the next few pitches could determine the game. He knows the manager has sent Ashton into the tunnel to the locker room to warmup, somewhere Luke won’t see him and lose his confidence.

As great as Luke’s changeup is for groundouts, Mike thinks that Luke needs a strikeout, _right now_ , to get this game back and his head on track. It’s only one run, but too often is it a single run that determines the game—and this one could decide the whole damn season. They don’t want to go into the final game of the season tomorrow, after a loss and playing for their skins.

His first pitch after giving up the triple is a strike. And seconds later, it’s a strikeout looking. From across the field, he feels Calum’s smile for the same pitch that blanked him months earlier. That’s the second out of the sixth.

The third is Michael, but he almost misses it. On the first base side, runners often take advantage of Hemmings’ unwavering focus on the batter and steal second—which makes it a good thing that he rarely lets runners on base. But on the other side of the diamond, it means the runners get complacent, drift too far from the base, not with an intent to steal home, but to get whatever headstart they can.

Luke pitches, intentionally away from the batter, but as the umpire gruffly calls “ball!” Leighman is already mid-throw to Michael; he’s only prepared for it by instinct and muscle memory. He catches, tags the stunned runner, and the inning’s over. Luke’s made a perfect pitchout, and it’s the first play like that Michael has been a part of in the majors.

With only seventy-three pitches, Luke can conceivably pitch the rest of the game, but what’s more amazing to Michael is that Luke took his focus off the batter long enough to realize there was a play at third.

* * *

Michael leads off in the eighth inning. He bats seventh in the lineup, sometimes sixth, but tonight seventh means it’s his job to—if not score—to get on base so that the better hitters at the top of the lineup get a chance to hit in this inning, rather than the final ninth. Mike immediately gets too in his head, lets the other team’s set-up man get him 0-2, two strikes looking.

In the seconds before the next pitch, Mike can already sense the strikeout, like a whirlpool he can’t escape. He breathes, tries to think about anything else, because it doesn’t matter what he’s thinking as long as it’s not the oncoming out. He thinks about the baseball in his mitt in his cubby, about dark rooms and bright lights, about melting ice and blue, blue, blue.

The throw comes.

His bat swings.

When the screams of the crowd finally reach him, Michael’s on second base, looking back across the diamond as Jeffries steps up to the plate.

And three batters later—Luke had marvelously bunted him to third, where he stands so rarely as part of the offense—he crosses home plate, tying the game and waving Jeffries on for the run that takes the lead. It’s 2-1, one out. When he gets to the dugout, he snags his mitt, replaces it with his helmet, and stands at the rails with Ashton.

And despite the miracle that Michael has completely blanked on, they don’t score again.

When he returns to the field for the ninth inning, mitt in hand, racing to third with the crowd’s roar louder than it’s ever been, he has no time to wonder why Luke is still pitching, with almost a hundred and twenty pitches on the night already, when their postseason dreams are within reach. He doesn’t even _want_ to question it. That’s another thing about baseball, sometimes you have to stick with what’s working rather that doing what makes sense by the books.

Luke is _right_ , and he gets the other team to go down in order, strikeout, groundout, and finally, a second freezing strikeout looking.

There’s really no way it could have gone better.

As their team, in the dugout and one the field, rush to meet in the center of the diamond, Michael is distantly aware of fireworks, like they have on Opening Day or the Fourth of July…or now, when they win the division. He runs, crashes into Luke still on the pitcher’s mound. Staring into those unceasingly blue eyes, eyes that terrified him only months ago, Michael smiles. Luke does too, and hugs him, and they scream into the sky alongside their teammates, before hugging tightly. Michael can feel his dreams of the postseason whirling around his head, no longer trapped inside, but a reality. He wants to scream some more, to cheer, to riot with the team and the fans.

Instead, he pulls slightly away from Luke’s arms, drops his mitt, and kisses him without abandon. After a few seconds, he mumbles “finally made it” against Luke’s struck and smiling lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey team! Thank you for reading, thank you so so so much! If she seems a bit rushed at the end, just know it wasn't rushed at all, I'm just crap at endings :)
> 
> Still occasionally working on little blurbs and offshoots of this fic, but this is the end of the big one, and we're onto something new, I think!


End file.
